by Sue Grafton
If I didn’t find a way to stop it, it would scuttle into one of the spaces between my file cabinets and reside there for life. What was I supposed to do? Stepping on a spider that size was out of the question. I didn’t want to get that close to it and I didn’t want to see stuff squirt out when I crushed it to death. I certainly wasn’t going to whack it with a magazine. My distaste aside, the spider represented no danger. Tarantulas aren’t poisonous, but they’re ugly as sin—mossy with hair, eight glittering round eyes, and (I kid you not) fangs that were visible from half a room away.
Oblivious to my concerns, the tarantula tiptoed out of my office with a certain daintiness and proceeded to cross the reception area. I was afraid it might stretch and elongate, insinuating itself under the baseboard like a cat slipping under a fence.
I kept a wary eye on it, rapidly backing down the hall to my kitchenette. On Friday I’d washed the clear glass coffee carafe and set it upside down on a towel to dry. I grabbed it and sped back, amazed at the distance the tarantula had covered in just those few seconds. I didn’t dare pause to consider how repellant it was at close range. I made my mind a blank, turned the carafe upside down, and set it over him. Then I shuddered again, a groan emanating from some primitive part of me.
I backed away from the carafe, patting myself on the chest. I’d never use that carafe again. I couldn’t bear to drink from a coffeepot that spider feet had touched. I hadn’t solved my problem; I’d only delayed the inevitable issue of how to dispose of it. What were my choices? Animal Control? A local Tarantula Rescue group? I didn’t dare set it free in the wild (that being the patch of ivy outside my door) because I’d always be searching the ground for it, wondering when it was going to pop out again. It’s times like these when you need a guy around, though I’d have been willing to bet most men would have been as disgusted as I was and just about as squeamish at the idea of spider guts.
I went back to my desk, sidestepping the empty manila envelope, which I’d have to burn. I took out the telephone book and looked up the number for the Museum of Natural History. The woman who answered the phone didn’t behave as though my situation was unusual. She checked her Rolodex and recited the number of a fellow in town who actually bred tarantulas. Then she informed me, with a certain giddiness, that his lecture, complete with a live demonstration, was a favorite among elementary-school kids, who liked having the spiders crawl up and down their arms. I put the image out of my mind as I dialed the number she’d given me.
I wasn’t sure what to expect of someone who made a living consorting with tarantulas. The young man who arrived at my office door half an hour later was in his early twenties, big and soft, with a beard that was probably meant to lend him an air of maturity. “Are you Kinsey? Byron Coe. Thanks for the call.”
I shook his hand, trying not to bubble over with gratitude. His grip was light and his palm was warm. I looked at him with the same devotion I accorded my plumber the day the hose on the washing machine came loose and spewed water everywhere. “I appreciate your being so prompt.”
“I’m happy to be of help.” His smile was sweet and his thicket of blond hair was as big as a burning bush. He wore denim overalls, a short-sleeved T-shirt, and hiking boots. He’d brought with him two lightweight plastic carriers that he set on the floor, one medium and one large. The coffee carafe had attracted his attention the minute he arrived, but he’d been polite about it. “Let’s see what you got here.”
He eased himself down to the floor on one bent knee and then stretched out on his tummy and put his face near the carafe. He gave the glass a tap, but the spider was too busy to care. He was feeling his way around the perimeter, hoping for a little doorway to freedom. Byron said, “He’s a beauty.”
“Oh, thanks.”
“This fellow’s a Mexican red-legged tarantula, Brachypelma emilia, maybe five or six years old. A male judging by his color. See how dark he is? The females are closer to a soft brown. Where’d you find him?”
“Actually, he found me. Someone left him for me in a padded envelope.”
He looked up with interest. “What’s the occasion?”
“No occasion, just a very sick practical joke.”
“Some joke. You can’t buy a red-legged spiderling for less than a hundred and twenty-five dollars.”
“Yeah, well, nothing but the best for me. When you say Mexican red-legged, does that mean they’re only found in Mexico?”
“Not exclusively. In states like Arizona, New Mexico, and Texas, they’re not uncommon. I breed Chaco golden knees and cobalt blues. Neither cost as much as this guy. I have a pair of Brazilian salmon pinks I picked up for ten bucks each. You know you can actually train tarantulas as pets?”
“Really,” I said. “I had no idea.”
“Heck, yes. They’re quiet and they don’t shed. They do molt and you have to be a little bit careful about bites. The venom’s harmless to humans, but you’ll have swelling at the site and sometimes numbness or itching. Goes away pretty quick. It’s nice you didn’t kill him.”
“I’m a conservationist at heart,” I said. “Listen, if you’re going to pick him up, please warn me. I’m leaving the room.”
“Nah, this guy’s had enough trauma for one day. I don’t want him thinking I’m the enemy.”
While I watched, he removed the ventilated lid from the medium-size clear plastic box. He took a pencil from my desk, picked up the carafe, and used it to coax the spider into the carrier. (The pencil was going, too.) He snapped the lid in place and used the pop-up handle to lift him up to face level again.
“If you want him, he’s yours,” I said.
“Really?” He smiled, his face flushing with delight. I hadn’t given a fellow that much pleasure since Cheney and I broke up.
“I’ll also be happy to pay for your time. You really saved my life.”
“Oh man, this is payment enough. If you change your mind, I’ll be happy to bring him back.”
I said, “Go and god bless.”
Once the door closed behind him, I sat at my desk and had a nice long chat with myself. A Mexican red-legged. Bite my ass. This was Solana’s doing. If her purpose was to scare the shit out of me, she’d done well. I wasn’t sure what the tarantula represented to her, but from my perspective it spoke of a twisted mind at work. She was putting me on notice and I got the point. Any relief my morning run had generated went straight out the window. That first glimpse of the spider would be with me for life. I still had the willies. I put together the files I’d need, picked up my portable Smith-Corona, locked the office door behind me, and loaded the car. The office felt contaminated. I’d work from home.
I made it through the day. Though easily distracted, I was determined to be productive. I needed comfort, and for lunch I allowed myself a sandwich made with half an inch of olive pimento cheese spread on whole grain bread. I cut it in quarters the way I had as a child and I savored every tangy bite. I wasn’t all that strict about dinner either, I must confess. I needed to sedate myself with food and drink. I know it’s very naughty to use alcohol to relieve tension, but wine is cheap, it’s legal, and it does the job. Up to a point.
When I went to bed that night I didn’t have to worry about lying awake. I was ever so slightly inebriated and I slept like a stone.
It was the faintest whiff of cold air that woke me. I was sleeping in sweats, in anticipation of my early morning run, but even suited up, I was cold. I glanced at the digital clock, but the face was black, and I realized the usual soft purring of appliances had ceased. The power had gone out, an irksome business for someone as time-oriented as I was. I stared up through the Plexiglas skylight but couldn’t estimate the hour. If I’d known it was early, 2:00 or 3:00 A.M., I’d have pulled the covers over my head and slept until my inner alarm clock woke me at 6:00. Idly I wondered if the outage included the whole neighborhood. In Santa Teresa, if the wind blows wrong, there are tiny breaks in the service and the flow of electricity cuts out. Seconds later the clo
cks might flash on again, but the numbers continue to blink merrily, announcing the upset. In this instance there was none of that. I could have groped across the bed table for my watch. By squinting and angling the face, I might have been able to see the hands, but it didn’t seem to matter much.
I was puzzled by the cold air and I wondered if I’d left a window open somewhere. It didn’t seem likely. In winter, I keep the studio snug, often closing the interior shutters to eliminate drafts. I looked down to the foot of my bed.
There was someone, a woman, standing there. Motionless. The nighttime darkness is never absolute. Given the city’s light pollution, I can always distinguish gradients of light, starting with the paler shades of gray and deepening to charcoal. If I wake during the night, this is what allows me to wander the studio without bothering to turn on lights.
It was Solana. In my house. In my loft, staring down at me while I slept. Fear spread through me slowly like ice. The cold moved out from my core all the way to the tips of my fingers and toes in the same way water gradually turns solid when a lake freezes over. How had she gotten in? I waited, wondering if the specter would resolve into an ordinary object—a jacket thrown over the railing, a garment bag hanging from the hinge on my closet door.
At first, my mind was blank with disbelief. There was no way—no way—she could have gained entry. Then I remembered Henry’s house key attached to a white cardboard tag with PITTS neatly printed on it by means of identification. Gus kept the key in his desk drawer, where I’d come upon it the first time I searched for Melanie’s phone number. Henry had told me there was a time when Gus had brought in the mail and watered the plants when Henry was out of town. Henry’s locks and mine were keyed the same, and when I thought about it, I couldn’t remember securing the burglar chain, which meant once she unlocked the door, there was nothing preventing her from coming in. What could be easier? I might just as well have left my front door ajar.
She must have sensed I was awake and looking at her. We stared at each other. There was no need for conversation. If she was armed with a weapon, this was the moment she’d strike, knowing I was aware of her, but powerless to fight. Instead, she moved away. I saw her turn toward the spiral stairs and disappear. I sat straight up in bed, my heart banging. I pushed the covers aside and reached for my running shoes, shoving my bare feet into them. The lighted clock face shone bright again, numbers flashing. It was 3:05. Solana must have found the breaker box. Now the power was on and I skittered down the stairs. My front door stood open and I could hear her unhurried footsteps receding along the walk. There was an insolence in the leisurely way she left. She had all the time in the world.
I closed the door, turned the thumb lock, slid on the chain, and hurried into the downstairs bathroom. Through the window I could see a squared-off view of the street. I pressed my forehead against the glass, checking in both directions. There was no sign of her. I expected to hear a car start, but the quiet was unbroken. I sank down on the rim of the tub and rubbed my face with my hands.
Now that she was gone, I was more afraid than I’d been when she was there.
In the dark of the bathroom, I closed my eyes and projected myself into her head, seeing the situation as she must view it. First the tarantula, now this. What was she up to? If she wanted me dead—which she did without doubt—why hadn’t she acted while she had the chance?
Because she wanted to demonstrate her power over me. She was telling me she could walk through walls, that it would never be safe for me to close my eyes. Wherever I went and whatever I did, I’d be vulnerable. At work, at home, I was at her mercy, alive purely at her whim, but possibly not for long. What were the other messages embedded in the first?
Starting with the obvious, she wasn’t in Mexico. She’d left the car near the border so we’d assume she’d fled. Instead, she’d doubled back. By what means? I hadn’t heard a car start, but she could have parked two blocks away and made the rest of the trip to and from my bedside on foot. The problem from her perspective was that buying or renting a car required personal identification. Peggy Klein had snatched her driver’s license and without that she was screwed. She couldn’t be certain her face, her name, and her various aliases hadn’t been burning up the wires. For all she knew, the minute she tried to use her phony credit cards, she’d announce her location and law enforcement would close in.
In the weeks she’d been gone, she probably hadn’t applied for work, which meant she was living on cash. Even if she found a way to bypass the issue of ID, buying or renting a car would eat up valuable resources. Once she killed me, she’d have to lie low, which meant she’d have to save her cash reserves to support herself until she found someone new to prey on. Those matters took patience and careful planning. She hadn’t had time enough to set up a new life. So how had she managed to get here?
By bus or by train. Traveling by bus was cheap and largely anonymous. Traveling by train would allow her to disembark a scant three blocks from where I lived.
First thing the next morning, I told Henry about my night visitor and my theory of how she’d gotten in. After that, I called a locksmith and had my locks changed. Henry and Gus had their locks changed as well. I also called Cheney and told him what had happened so he could put the word out on his end. I’d given him photographs of Solana so the officers on every shift would be familiar with her face.
Once again, my nerves were on edge. I pressed Lonnie about getting the judge’s order signed so I could have my guns back in my possession. I don’t know how he did it, but I had the order in hand and retrieved them from the gun shop that afternoon. I didn’t picture myself walking around like a gunslinger, armed to the teeth, but I had to do something to make myself feel safe.
Wednesday morning when I returned from my run, there was a photograph taped to my front door. Solana again. What now? Frowning, I pulled it free. I let myself in, locked the door behind me, and turned on the desk lamp. I studied the image, knowing what it was. She’d snapped a picture of me the day before somewhere along my jogging route. I recognized the dark blue sweats I’d worn. It had been nippy out and I’d wrapped a lime green scarf around my neck, the first and only time. It must have been late in the run because my face was flushed and I was breathing through my mouth. In the background, I could see part of a building with a streetlamp in front. The angle was odd, but I couldn’t think what that meant. The message was clear enough. Even the run, which had been my salvation, was under siege. I sat down on the couch and put a hand over my mouth. My fingers were cold and I found myself shaking my head. I couldn’t live this way. I couldn’t spend the rest of my life on red alert. I stared at the photo and another thought occurred to me. She wanted me to find her. She was showing me where she was, but she wouldn’t make it easy. Being sly was her way of maintaining the upper hand. Wherever she was, all she had to do was wait while I was forced to do the legwork. The challenge was to see if I was smart enough to track her down. If not, she’d send me another clue. What I couldn’t “get” was her game plan. She had something in mind, but I couldn’t read her well enough to figure out what it was. It was an interesting display of power. I had more at stake than she did, but she had nothing to lose.
I showered and dressed in sweats and running shoes. For breakfast, I ate cold cereal. I washed the bowl and spoon and set them in the rack to dry. I went upstairs and took out my fanny pack. I left the key picks in their compact leather folder but removed the pick gun to make room for the H&K, which I loaded and tucked in its place. I left the house with Solana’s photo of me in hand. The other snapshots I carried were of her. I walked my route—down Cabana, left on State. I kept an eye on the passing landscape, trying to identify the point from which the photo had been taken. It looked like the eye of the camera was angled downward, but not by much. If she’d been out in the open, I would have seen her. During a run, I keep my focus on the run itself, but not to the exclusion of all else. I was usually out before the sun came up, and as empty as the streets
appeared to be, there were always other people about and not all of them good. I was interested in being fit, but not at the cost of being foolish.
I was torn between a natural desire to be thorough and a need to get to the point. I compromised by walking half the route. My hunch was that her location was on the beach side of the freeway. The buildings along the upper part of State had a very different look to them than the one in the photograph. I’d taken this route for weeks and it surprised me how different the streets looked when I traveled at a walking pace. Retail stores were still closed, but the popular sidewalk cafés were filled. People were heading off to the gym or returning to their cars, damp from their workouts.
At the intersection of Neil and State, I turned and retraced my steps. It helped that there weren’t that many lampposts—two to every block. I scanned the buildings as high as the second floor, checking fire escapes and balconies where she might have hidden. I looked for windows located at a level that would reproduce the angle from which the snapshot had been taken. I’d almost reached the railroad tracks by then and I was running short of geography. It was the section of building she’d caught in the frame that finally tipped me off. It was the T-shirt shop across the street. The skirting beneath the plate-glass window was quite distinct now that I looked at it. Slowly I walked on until the slice of background matched the picture. Then I turned and looked behind me. The Paramount Hotel.
I checked the window visible just above the marquee. It was a corner room, probably large because I could see a deep balcony that wrapped around both sides of the building at that point. Maybe the original hotel had had a restaurant up there, with French doors that opened onto the balcony so patrons could enjoy the morning air at breakfast and, later, the setting sun at the cocktail hour.
I went into the lobby through the front doors. The remodel had been done with an impeccable eye for detail. The architect had managed to capture the old glamour without sacrificing current standards of elegance. It looked like all the old brass fixtures were still in place, burnished to a high shine. I knew this to be untrue as the originals had been looted in the days just after the hotel closed. Murals in muted tones covered the walls, with scenes depicting the fashionable set in residence at the Paramount Hotel in the 1940s. The doorman was on hand, as well as numerous bellhops toting luggage for the patrons checking in. A party of rail-thin women in jaunty hats played a hand of bridge in one corner of the lobby. Two of the four had foxtail furs tossed over their suit jackets with the big shoulder pads. There was no hint that a war was going on except for the scarcity of men. The patio and pool area had been brushed in, the images lifted from old photographs. I could see six cabanas on the far side of the pool, which was flanked with ponytail palms and the larger, more graceful queen palms. What I hadn’t realized, peering at the construction through the barrier, was that the pool extended under a glass wall into the lobby itself. The lobby portion was largely decorative, but the overall effect was nice. In the mural there were vintage automobiles parked at the street and no hint of the various tourist-oriented businesses that now stretched along State. Just to the right, there was a wide carpeted stair in trompe l’oeil curving up to the mezzanine. I turned and saw the same stairway in reality.