The Black Widow (31 page)

“What?”

“I saw you before. Down the street. I knew that was you. I knew it!”

“What?” He still sounds confused . . . but a little less groggy now.

“On the porch at your mother’s house.”

“What are you talking about?”

She feels him falter and sway beneath her grasp. “Careful. You’re still weak. It’s the heat. I’ll get you a cold drink. Sit down . . . here’s the couch.”

He stiffens. “You put something in my drink.”

“I did,” she agrees. “To help you relax. I was afraid you wouldn’t come with me.”

“
You put something in my drink?”
he repeats. “Why—”

“I just told you that, darling. Now sit down.”

He pushes her away.

What the . . . ?

She puts her hands on his arms again. “Carmen—”

“I don’t know who you think I am or what you think you’re doing, lady,” he says, “but get your hands off me.”

Lady?

He called her
Lady
?

As if she’s a total stranger?

It’s the medication,
she reminds herself.
He’s still confused. It’ll wear off, and then he’ll realize . . .

Again he pushes her away, starting to walk in the opposite direction.

“Stop!” she calls. “Stop right now!”

He keeps going, feet unsteady but carrying him right toward the front door. Bowls of food clatter as his feet encounter them.

“You’re making a bigger mess, Carm!” she shrieks. “Stop it!”

“I’m not Carm! I don’t know who that is, but . . . You’re crazy.”

Crazy.

The word hits her like a bullet. The butterflies are gone, replaced by a sickening ache and the realization that she’d tucked Mr. Griffith’s gun into her pocket before answering the door earlier.

She had decided not to use it on her visitor, though. It would have been so bloody, and so loud, and the hot tub was already waiting . . .

Now, though, she aims the gun at the back of the man she loves. She never imagined it would come to this.

Yes, you did. Of course you did.

Back when he was still here, but not the same. Nothing was the same after . . .

The gun in her hand trembles.

After . . .

Afterward. He grew more and more distant. Just when she needed him most. And then one day he was gone, and so was Dante, and she was all alone here.

“Don’t you dare walk out that door. Don’t you dare leave me again.”

He keeps walking.

“Stop,” she says calmly, and cocks the gun, “or I swear I’ll shoot.”

That stops him in his tracks.

Sully and Stockton are back at the white-board diagram.

Bobby Springer’s name has been added, in chronological order of disappearance. He apparently went missing on September 20. Exactly twelve weeks later to the day, Jake Fuentes vanished on December 13. Another twelve weeks and Tomas Delgado went missing on March 7. Twelve more weeks and Carlos Diaz fell off the face of the earth on May 30. All happened on Fridays. All were single Hispanic men who used Internet dating services. All were employed in the same general industry.

If Sully and Stockton had any doubt before that the cases were related, the pattern has become unmistakable with the addition of a fourth name.

“I said it before and I’ll say it again . . .” Stockton pauses to carefully tear a sip hole into the white plastic lid of his take-out coffee cup. “At least we got a few months before we have to worry about anyone else going missing.”

“Yes, but why? Why twelve weeks? Think about things that are cyclical. What happens every twelve weeks?”

“I keep going back to seasons.”

“And I keep telling you they’re not perfectly spaced! We’re looking at something that’s perfectly rhythmic. What is it?”

“Nothing that makes sense. Because we’re dealing with some kind of crazy psycho mutha—”

“And possibly a female.”

“You said it, not me.”

Sully rolls her eyes. “What I mean is, females are driven by a monthly cycle.”

“Right.”

“And some women’s cycles are like clockwork, every twenty-eight days or whatever. I was like that. Every four weeks—boom.”

“Boom?” Stockton gulps some coffee. “You just crossed into TMI territory, Gingersnap.”

“What I mean is, when Rick and I were trying to get pregnant, I knew exactly when I was ovulating every month to the day. We called it date night. You could be exhausted, or in a crappy mood, or sick with the flu, but if date night rolled around, you just had to suck it up and do it.”

“Romantic. If you two lovebirds couldn’t pull off happily ever after, then I don’t know who can.”

Ignoring the snark, Sully goes on, “I know it doesn’t have to be related to anything like that, but when I Googled trying to find things that are cyclical, no matter what combination of key words I used . . . I always found my way back to female reproductive links.”

“But those cycles are every four weeks, give or take,” Stockton points out when she trails off. “Not every twelve weeks.”

“Right. So what if we overlooked more connected cases? What if there have been disappearances every four weeks and we’re just missing them?”

“We’re not. We been over every missing persons case going back to last summer, and there is no way we’re missing half a dozen files that fit.”

“You’re right.”

“And you’d be assuming . . . what? That some woman out there is kidnapping these guys because she needs to get laid on a certain day because she’s ovulating?”

“It makes a certain kind of sense.”

“Not to me.”

“The victims all have certain things in common.”

“They’re all Hispanic.”

“Which is a genetic factor. They have similar occupations . . .”

“Which isn’t.”

“Or is it? I’m a cop, my father was a cop, my ancestors were cops going back over a hundred years. Your father was a cop, and your brother is, too.”

“Yeah . . .”

“I’ve done some research. Some studies link career choice to genetics. Identical twins who are separated at birth are sometimes drawn to the same kinds of jobs.”

“And sometimes they’re not.”

Sully shakes her head wearily and rubs her eyes. “I know. I know I’m on the wrong track, trying to make something fit. I need to move past it. So let’s see . . . what else happens without fail every twelve weeks on the dot? Because something is triggering this cycle, and if we just can figure out what it is, then we’ll be—”

She breaks off as the door opens. A rookie cop pokes his head into the room to announce, “Looks like you got a leak on your hands.”

“A leak?”

The one-word reply makes Sully’s heart plummet: “Press.”

Ben is frozen, staring straight ahead at the front door of this stench-filled hell house.

Behind him, the woman speaks again. “Turn around. Slowly. Don’t try anything. Got it?”

Yeah. He’s got it. Even if he weren’t convinced she has a gun—and he is, having heard the unmistakable click of a weapon poised to shoot—he doesn’t trust his own legs to carry him to salvation. Whatever she’d put into his drink at the beach—both drinks, he realizes, remembering that she’d brought him that bottle of iced tea when they first met—was powerful stuff.

“Turn around!” she barks.

He does. Slowly. Sees the gun, and the unmistakable glint of madness in her blue eyes.

“I thought things were going to be different this time, Carmen.”

Carmen.

She’s delusional, convinced he’s someone else.

He has to bring her back to reality. “I’m not—”

He breaks off, seeing her dart a glance at the stairway behind him.

“What are you doing here?” she calls.

He turns his head far enough to see that the stairway is empty.

“How did you get out of the closet? He’s allergic to you, remember? Stay away from him.” Her gaze shifts again, as if she’s staring at something right at Ben’s feet.

There’s nothing there but a bowl of cat food. Looking down at it, he sees that the gelatinous goo is infested with a mass of fat white maggots.

Is he hallucinating? From the drug?

He squeezes his eyes shut, opens them again. The maggots are still there.

Sheer disgust mingles with cold terror in his brain, helping to keep the fog at bay. He’s not hallucinating. She is.

“Okay, go ahead, you stupid cat. Rub that fur all over his legs. It will serve him right if he breaks out in hives.”

Swallowing a mouthful of bile, Ben slowly raises his head. Clearly she sees a cat that isn’t there, so what—or who—does she see when she looks at him?

Trying not to let his voice waver, he says, “I’m not Carmen. I’m not. I’m Ben, remember?”

“Ben?” Recognition seems to flicker.

“We met at the beach. Well, we met online. On the InTune Web site. Remember?”

That triggers it. “InTune.”

“Yes.”

“You lost your baby.”

“What?”

“You wrote that on your profile. It’s true, isn’t it?”

He can’t find his voice.

“Isn’t it?” she demands. “Or was it a lie?”

“No,” he says hoarsely. “It wasn’t a lie. I lost my son.”

She nods. “So did I. His name was Dante. What was your son’s name?”

“Josh.” Saying it here, now, to her—it’s torture. Yet it’s keeping her focus on something other than shooting him. The gun is still in her hand, but no longer aiming directly at him.

“Josh,” she repeats. “Yes. I guessed that. That woman we saw at the beach, the one who ran in front of us, chasing her little boy into the water . . . she was calling that name. It made you sad, didn’t it?”

“Yes.”

“I know how you feel. I lost my son, too. And my daughter. She was just a baby. She was in her crib and . . . she died. And he blamed me. Do you know how that made me feel?”

Yes.

I know it’s wrong, Ben. I know it wasn’t your fault . . .

He can’t speak. She doesn’t wait for him to.

“He said . . . he said I smothered her with a pillow.”

Swallowing a surge of raw emotion, he asks, “Who said that? Carmen?”

“Yes. Carmen blamed me. I told him that I loved her. And Dante—I loved Dante. More than anything in the world. But he said he was worried I was going to hurt him, too. Why would I do something like that?”

“You wouldn’t.” Ben shakes his head. “You wouldn’t hurt your own child. Ever.”

“No. But he thought I did.”

Ben has no idea whether the memory is real, but the pain is: her voice is constricted and her face contorted with the agony of loss.

“I’m so sorry, Alex—is that your real name? Alex?”

She blinks. Nods. “My mother named me Alex.”

“It’s nice.”

“It’s my real name. My mother gave it to me,” she repeats. “And then she left me.”

“I’m sorry.”

Keep her talking. Keep her calm.

“It’s hard,” he says, “when people leave. I know how hard it must have been for you.”

“Yes. You know. That’s why we belong together, Ben.”

Ben. Not Carmen.

Okay. Good.

“Yes,” he agrees. “You’re right. We do.”

She smiles. “I wasn’t sure if you realized it.”

“Of course I do. Let’s talk about it. But first—why don’t you hand me the gun, Alex?”

Wrong thing to say.

“You tried to leave, too,” she accuses, and the gun is on him once again. “If I didn’t have this, you would have walked out that door.”

“No, I—”

“Don’t lie to me!” Her voice is colder than the fear in his gut.

He remains silent.

Still aiming the gun with her right hand, she reaches into her pocket with her left and pulls out a cell phone. Clumsily working the buttons with one thumb, she mutters, “I should never have done that.”

“Done what?”

“My real name. Alex Jones. It’s on my profile. Well, it was. I just deleted it. Your turn. Time to delete your account.”

“Why?” he asks uneasily.

“Why do you think?”

“I’m . . . not sure.” Wisps of murkiness still linger in his brain, but an idea is taking shape. “Here, give me the phone and I’ll delete it, if that’s what you want me to do.”

“Give you the phone? Do you think I’m crazy?”

Yes. I sure as hell do.

“You said you wanted me to—”

“Shut up. What’s your user name?”

“What?”

“For InTune.” The gun points straight at him. “What’s your user name?”

“Benito Duran. All lowercase. No spaces.”

“Your name is Benito?”

“No one ever calls me that. Except my wife, sometimes.”

When she’s teasing him, or pretending to be angry . . .

Benito . . .

Gaby’s voice sweeps into his head on a gust of homesickness.

“I thought you were divorced.”

“We are.”

“You called her your wife. Not your ex-wife.”

“I meant my ex-wife.”

She regards him shrewdly. “What’s her name?”

“Why do you want to know?”

She glares for a moment, then thumb-types on her phone. “Okay. Password?”

He hesitates.

“I will kill you,” she says calmly, “if you don’t tell me. And if you don’t believe me—”

He believes her. He reluctantly tells her the password.

She types it in. Waits. Nods. Presses a few more buttons.

“There. No sign that you ever even existed on InTune. Let’s go.”

“What? Where?”

“Home.”

“But—” Cold dread snakes into his brain. “I thought you said we were home.”

“This was never your home. Only mine. Remember?”

“No. I don’t remember . . .”

“You designed your dream house, and then you had it built—for us, you said. But you were lying. It was always only for you. You wanted to live there yourself, with Dante—without me.”

Something has snapped once again. She’s back to thinking he’s Carmen. Her ex—or is it late?—husband.

“I saw those e-mails you were sending to the lawyer. I knew what you were planning to do. That’s why I destroyed it. You didn’t know I could do that, did you? It never dawned on you, because my records were sealed. You never knew about the fires, or what happened to the stupid kittens they adopted when they wouldn’t even adopt
me
.”