What Hides Within (42 page)

As she slowly made her way to Clive's body, Reilly remembered her reason for attending his wake and leaving the hospital against her doctors' advice. The case was closed, even in her own mind. So why did she feel so unsatisfied? Why did it seem like a piece was still missing?

He didn't have the ability
, she kept telling herself. She reconstructed each explosion in her head, trying to picture Clive carefully planning each blast, building and setting the bombs. Reilly knew Morgan didn't participate directly in the explosions, but she certainly was aware of them. She even knew where Clive kept his bombs. She had conveniently placed herself in the company of others when each explosion took place as though she were purposefully creating alibis for each occasion. Often, she was with Clive's late best friend, Derek LeRoux.

But Morgan wasn't without blame. Her role was more like that of a janitor. She helped clean up Clive's messes. To her misfortune, she got caught up in a mess that wasn't cleanable.

Reilly didn't believe Kevin was involved either. A troubled loner, he was the patsy from the start. Although Kevin would never be vindicated, Clive was the real demon. But Clive acting alone?

There's only so much one can learn through research, particularly on matters so highly felonious. A few books, Wikipedia and common household products don't make an explosives expert. There had to be someone else.

Reilly shuddered. There were no other suspects. Those who weren't dead were easily cleared of any suspicion. There was nothing to suggest Clive had been in contact with anyone capable of conveying to him the expansive knowledge in civil and electrical engineering, chemistry and manufacturing that he seemed to have possessed. His devices were crude but potent, and they were placed with intent to cause maximum destruction.

All evidence Reilly collected suggested Clive Menard had committed each explosion. It would be one heck of a frame-up if Clive wasn't involved. Not even the most masterful of criminals were that smart or thorough. As hard as it was for Reilly to accept, Clive must have been skilled beyond even his own comprehension.

Reilly assumed that long after her wounds healed and her mind became entrenched with new cases and new villains, she might come to tolerate the idea that Clive was some sort of idiot savant, a master of a deadly art. For now, however, Reilly couldn't let go of her uncertainties. But as she peered down at the remains, handsomely done up by the mortician in Clive's best digs, her mind turned to only one thought.

Nice suit.

***

"You want to get a beer when we're done here?" George asked as he slid his hands down his worn, solid black suit, trying to iron out its folds.

"You buying?"

Lenny wasn't falling for that crap again. Every time he went out for drinks with George, he always ended up buying the first and last round and sometimes doubling up on rounds in between. Then again, he drank twice as much as George.

"Yeah, I'll get the first one."

Lenny rested his arm along the smooth oak. The many coats of polyurethane gave it that freshly polished appearance. Its sparkle starkly contrasted to that which lacked any sparkle within it. Its cushiony interior was made of a fine, soft velvet backed by polyester.

So much money
, he thought.
Only to be buried. Such a waste. Still, I guess that's what our clients pay us for.

"We closing him up, or is he on display for a second night?" George asked.

George gestured to the Jack-in-the-box beside Lenny. No matter how one played with his box, Clive wasn't a Jack that would be popping out again. He was dead as dead gets. Yet, lying in his coffin, Clive still didn't seem at peace.

"I'm afraid this guy's act is one night only. I don't think he was anybody important. His mother could barely afford to bury him, yet she still insisted on the plush casket. He was lucky he didn't end up in a garbage bag at the dump like my old dog, Sandy. When I go, stuff me six feet under in a cardboard box with a dead hooker, put my skinless cock inside her, and I'll spend eternity a happy man."

"That's wrong on so many levels."

"You're just sorry you didn't think of it first."

Lenny glanced down at the dead man. He'd seen hundreds like him. People were dying every day, and he was thankful for it. After all, death was good for business. Without it, he'd be flipping burgers or shoveling shit somewhere.

But something about Clive made Lenny do a double-take. Unlike the other corpses he'd helped to dispose, Lenny could see the unrest in Clive's soulless expression. Something about it sent a shiver up his spine. He turned away, and the gloom passed.

"Anyway . . ." He rolled his eyes, already forgetting his unusual uneasiness. "He's being buried tomorrow at nine. Are you working it?"

"I don't know. I can't even remember to brush my teeth most days, never mind my work schedule. Probably, though. I'll check it on our way out."

"Well, let's close him up and get out--ah!"

"What's your problem?"

Lenny tensed. He swatted at something on his sleeve.

"A fucking spider was crawling down my arm. I smashed it."

"Lenny, you deal with dead guys all day, yet a little spider makes you squeamish?" George laughed hard, but his laughter was cut short. The look on his face gave Lenny chills.

"Uh, Lenny, I think there might be more of them on you."

Lenny snickered. He assumed George was trying to pull one over on him. But after having found one spider, he couldn't resist taking a peek at the underside of his sleeve. When he did, his stomach turned. The black fibers of his suit seemed to be moving. Either that, or something black was moving on it.

"Jesus!" he shouted. More than thirty black spiderlings scurried up and down his arm. He frantically brushed them off, some futilely biting his hand as he did. Those that defended themselves could hardly break the surface of Lenny's skin with their underdeveloped, newborn fangs. They fell to the ground, dying beneath Lenny's stomping feet.

When he had satisfied himself that all the spiders on his arm were either removed or smashed into gut-covered exoskeletons, Lenny looked for the source of the sudden infestation. What he saw distressed even his mortician sensibilities.

The arachnids covered Clive's body. Hundreds of them were localized about Clive's face. They swarmed from his orifices. His ears, mouth and nostrils spewed out their wicked kin. Some worked their way around Clive's eyeballs. Eventually, an eye came loose as the spiderlings ate away at it.

George crept cautiously up to the coffin, troubled by his uncertainty. When he peered into it, he, too, seemed mortified. His mouth dropped open in awe.

After a moment, George spoke. "That's
so
gross!"

Lenny didn't respond. His eyes were focused on a spot on Clive's chest. Whatever he was looking at was small. Lenny had to squint to see it.

"Did you see that?" he asked, at last breaking his silence.

"I know! They're eating each other!"

It was true. The baby spiders were cannibalistic. They tore each other apart in a feeding frenzy. Most would never make it out of the coffin, their lives over minutes after they had begun. They would rest in peace forever with Clive.

"No," Lenny responded. Something had terrified him beyond the initial shock of watching a massive litter of spiders pour from a human head. "There was something else. A small spider, like these, but white, shiny. I think it was . . . staring at me."

"Whoa, Lenny, you do need a drink." George laughed. "Maybe you've been working here too long. Close the coffin already. Those things are getting everywhere. Trap them inside with the body. I'm sure he won't mind, and we don't need those spiders making a home in here."

"There it is again," Lenny squealed. Now, the aberration was closer to him, perched upon the coffin's lip. Was it staring at him? Something about that spider made Lenny extremely uncomfortable. It was as though he could sense an innate evil radiating from its miniature frame. He swatted at it with a sense of urgency. He needed to kill it first, before . . . before what? Lenny didn't know. He just knew he needed that ghastly spider dead. His hand crashed down against the wood.

"You're losing it, man," George teased. "If you hate those things so much, close the coffin, and let's get the fuck out of here. Crystal's going to be at McFadden's soon, and if someone is going to take her home tonight, I want that someone to be me."

"Alright," Lenny replied. He lifted his hand from the coffin. There was nothing beneath it.

"Shit! I didn't get him."

"So what? Let's go already."

Lenny examined his hand. As he twisted his wrist, his saw the white spider scramble up the back of his arm.

"Fuck! It's on me!"

"Humph," George said, sighing as though he'd already lost interest in the spider infestation. "Hold still."

George walked over to his co-worker and brushed his hand down Lenny's back, swiping at what Lenny assumed to be the white spider. He stomped his foot on the ground.

"Did you get him?"

"Got him," George said. "Let's go."

Lenny heaved a sigh of relief. It wasn't until he felt the tickle of little feet pitter-pattering over his neck that he knew George had fooled him. The spider circled his jaw bone to the side of his chin.

"It's still on me!" Lenny slashed his fingers wildly, clawing at his neck. But the spider kept circling, drawing closer to his ear. "I can't get it off!"

"Oh, for crying out loud! You're delirious, man. There's nothing on you."

"Argh!" Lenny screamed. Then he crumbled beneath his own weight. His temples throbbed with a headache unequaled by any he had felt before. It felt like his brain was growing beyond the confines of his skull. His nose began to bleed.

"Shit, Lenny. Are you okay? Should I get help?"

George and the world around Lenny went silent, the pounding in his head blocking all else out. It continued for what seemed like forever. Then, all at once, it stopped.

Hello, Lenny
, a voice echoed inside him. Lenny glanced frantically around the room. The tumult within him reflected in his eyes. A rumbling sound vibrated through his head. Was it laughter?

An hour later, George was dead, his body peppered with dead spiders. His head had been partially decapitated by a slamming coffin lid. Clive's coffin lid. And Lenny, confused and scared, was hiding. He hoped he'd never be found.

The stench permeating from her father's room was more appalling than the odor from a cow field under July sun. Because the heat had been set so low, it rarely activated, and the winter temperatures outside found their way in. The body was slow to decay. But after a week, it was well on its way toward decomposition. The air reeked of death.

Victoria didn't mind. Her biggest concern was her dwindling supply of Cocoa Puffs and milk. She wondered if she would have to find her way to the grocery store herself. She wondered how she'd pay for it. Her father had always kept his wallet on the bureau in his bedroom. Victoria had been punished once for stealing a dollar from it. Her father had been disappointed in her, and she knew she'd hurt him. Now, she wouldn't go into his wallet for an entirely different reason. She didn't want to disturb her father's eternal rest.

Victoria sat on her couch, staring blankly at a turned-off television while she nibbled on a stale Pop Tart. She still wore her favorite pajama bottoms. She had worn them every day, save for a short while when she dressed herself for her Uncle Clive's funeral, waiting by the door for her grandmother to pick her up so that her father wouldn't be disturbed.

She wrinkled her nose. It tickled as though a hair had worked its way up it. Victoria dismissed it and bit down on her nutrition-less snack. As she did, a small piece of what appeared to be frosting glided to the end of the Pop Tart, crossing the icing as though it were truly made of ice. As it hit the brown, toasted edge, Victoria could see that the bit of frosting wasn't frosting at all, but a nearly pigment-less widow spider.

Even with her knowledge of spider venom, Victoria was unafraid. She watched semi-interested in the creature's activities, but sensed no threat. A web line protruded from its butt, across the Pop Tart and, she soon realized, into her nose. Its red-bolt markings glowed. Its dark eyes glowed, too. They glared back at Victoria.

Still, Victoria wasn't afraid. Even when it somehow spoke to her, she wasn't alarmed. Apparently, neither was the spider.

Hello, Victoria.

Victoria didn't respond. The talking spider failed to impress her, as though talking spiders were an everyday occurrence for Victoria. She just didn't care about anything anymore. The two stared at each other in silence, like an old couple eating dinner who had nothing left to say to each other after all their years together.

At last, Victoria spoke. "Who are you?"

I'm a good friend of your uncle's. He sent me here to take care of you.

"Uncle Clive's imaginary friend? So he wasn't talking to himself, then."

That's right. I was his best friend in the whole wide world. And I'm very, very real. He told me that, should anything ever happen to him, I was to look after you like I did him. I'm your best friend now, Victoria.

Victoria was instantly skeptical. Still, the spider's pledge was comforting.

"Will you always be my friend?"

Yes, Victoria. Forever.

"You won't leave me?"

Never.

Victoria believed the spider's words because she wanted to believe them. She had little reason not to believe them. If Uncle Clive had been friends with her, she must be okay. Besides, Victoria was lonely, in need of a friend, one who would never leave her like everyone else had.

"Mr. Wigglesworth? Isn't that what Uncle Clive called you?"

Not usually. And as you know, I'm not a "Mr."

"Well, then, what should I call you?"

Your Uncle Clive used to call me Chester. But that's not my name either. In truth, I don't have a name. I am descended from divinity, the unhappy byproduct of demigods and man. We were cast away, my kind, by a hateful ruler, before our fathers could name us and before our mothers could nurture us. Even so, we were giants among men, beings worthy of great reverence. But our Creator had no use for us, and we were exiled, wrongly punished for our parents' sins. She chose not to destroy us, instead transforming us into these insignificant specks, forgotten by humanity and the omnipotent.