by McKenna Dean
I smiled. “Good reflexes.”
“Indeed.” He gave a little cough, stood up and motioned toward the door with a flourish of his hand.
I had no choice but to stand as well. When I picked up my resume and letter of introduction, I noticed a glob of some pink rubbery substance stuck to the bottom of my papers. I thought it was chewing gum at first, but then I realized it was more like that stuff kids played with. Silly something. I couldn’t remember the name. Frowning, I tried pulling off the offending goo, but it clung like rubber cement. I managed to stretch it into a ridiculous string and had to roll it back up again before I could peel it off. Once freed from my papers, I pressed it into a ball and half-flung it to Mr. Jessop’s desk.
Looking down on the ball of putty, the imprint of the first line of my resume visible on its surface, I had the oddest impression it moved a little toward me. Impossible. I shook off the delusion. Crushed by disappointment, I put my coat on without thinking. The bread rolls I’d hidden up my sleeves shot out and bounced across the floor.
Mortified, I dropped to my knees and chased after them as they rolled away like mice evading a cat. “The bakery was out of bags,” I lied. “I’d folded them in my jacket to protect them from the weather, but forgot they were there.”
Mr. Jessop said nothing, but his brow crinkled in pained compassion. “Is there anything you’d like to share with us, Miss Bishop?”
I shook my head, refusing to dignify the implication I’d stolen bread. Which, of course, was true, but I had no intention of admitting it. What else could he have meant, anyway? I collected the rolls along with my dignity and made to leave. As my hand landed on the doorknob, the intercom buzzed. When I glanced back over my shoulder, I saw a blinking red light on the phone.
Mr. Jessop lifted an index finger to indicate I should wait, and picked up the phone, dialing a single digit. The rotary on the phone whirred as the number connected. He spoke into the receiver. “Yes, sir?”
A long pause ensued, during which time I strained to hear what the caller might say, but to no avail.
“But, sir!” Mr. Jessop shot me a look, only to turn his back and speak into the receiver in a lowered voice. “We know nothing about her.”
Whatever the person on the other end of the phone had to say, it didn’t make Mr. Jessop happy.
“Very good, sir. Right away, sir.” Mr. Jessop hung up the phone with an ill-concealed sigh. “It seems Ryker would like you to start on Monday.”
“Ryker?” That made little sense. Wasn’t Mr. Jessop in charge?
“The head of Redclaw. He’s decided to hire you, at least for now.”
“Thank you, sir.” The realization that Mr. Ryker, whoever he may be, had to have been monitoring the interview dampened my overwhelming relief. “I won’t disappoint you.”
Mr. Jessop raised both eyebrows and pursed his lips. “That remains to be seen.”
He crossed over to a framed print of a 1952 Oldsmobile that hung by the filing cabinets. To my surprise, the painting swung to one side at his touch, revealing a wall safe concealed behind it. After he turned the dial too fast for me to follow, the tumblers clicked into place and he opened the door.
He took out a sheaf of papers and an envelope. Retiring to the desk, he indicated I should take my seat again.
“Ryker would like you to have an advance on your salary. I assume that would be acceptable to you?”
I blinked as he opened the envelope and counted out more bills than I’d ever seen offered for a secretarial position. He set the stack of cash to one side of his blotter.
“Yes, sir.”
“You will, of course, have to sign a non-disclosure form.” He dipped his pen into an inkwell and held it out to me, even as he shoved the papers in my direction.
A single drop of ink threatened to spill from the nib of the pen, like blood from the tip of a knife.
I didn’t hesitate. “Of course,” I said, accepting the pen.
After I signed the form, I ventured to ask a question. “Why did your boss hire me?”
Mr. Jessop’s smile was a cross between a wince and a grimace, and yet I sensed some hidden speculation behind it. Or perhaps I was imagining things. “He thinks you’re plucky. Ryker likes your spirit.”
With that, I would have to be satisfied.
Chapter Three
The first few weeks at Redclaw Security proved uneventful. Once I’d been there longer than my temp job would have lasted, the fear of being fired at any given moment faded.
Every morning, Miss Climpson and I arrived at the same time. Since I hadn’t been given a key yet, I waited behind her in the foyer while she opened the office. Most days she carried a stack of newspapers with her, some still damp with fresh ink. Once, when it looked as though they would spill out of her arms, I helped her carry them inside. In addition to the Times and the Washington Post, she collected copies of some of the more notorious tabloids, including the Enquirer, and even an issue of Ripley’s Believe It or Not.
After I started the percolator each morning, slowly awakening the senses as the rich scent of coffee filled the office, Miss Climpson would sit down at her desk and scan the papers, clipping out odd articles and placing them in a file.
At the end of each workday, I emptied the trash. Try as I might, I couldn’t tell the significance of what Miss Climpson chose to clip out versus what remained behind.
In time, on seeing the work assigned to me met her expectations, even if my typing barely passed muster, Miss Climpson unthawed enough to be pleasant. Our conversation never strayed beyond the weather or the business of the day, but that was fine with me. Anything other than outright hostility I could manage.
I noticed Miss Climpson still kept a close eye on me. No doubt ready to swoop in should I make a mistake.
Clearly, she delegated to me mindless tasks—the necessary minutia of running a business—no matter how boring. I typed blank contracts, filed paperwork, inventoried supplies, and took messages, while Miss Climpson met with both clients and people that I came to realize were other employees. The rabbity woman, whose name was Betty Snowden, came in every few days, always looking as if she expected someone to pounce on her at any moment and devour her whole. Her style was neat and fashionable, and I was tempted to ask her for shopping tips, but even the act of shaking my hand seemed to terrify her.
Most of the other staff members popped in and out without more than a glance in my direction before asking for Miss Climpson or Mr. Jessop. We didn’t advance beyond the “smile and nod” stage of office relationships. There seemed to be an invisible barrier between me and the other staffers. I wasn’t sure why, but it was a little depressing. However, I’d gotten used to being on my own this last year. I didn’t need to be friends with my coworkers.
While I never again saw the mysterious stranger with the pale golden eyes, another young man came in now and then. Rick Russo’s dark eyes flashed with an inner secret—either amusement or passion—it was hard to tell. He favored a battered rain coat and always looked in need of a shave and a haircut. Like Betty, he seemed uneasy in my presence and preferred dealing with Miss Climpson. Sometimes I’d catch him in quiet conversation with Betty, teasing a real smile out of the shy woman. I couldn’t help but think they’d make a cute couple.
I knew from my filing they were both on the payroll in freelance positions, and that whenever they showed up, Miss Climpson entered into a flurry of activity. More than that, Redclaw had decided I didn’t need to know.
I never saw my boss, the all-powerful Mr. Ryker, though I did wonder at the fact his employees referred to him by his last name only, as if he were some celebrity performer, like that piano player on television. For the most part, I forgot Ryker even existed. It was easier to think of Mr. Jessop as the man in charge, even though I knew that wasn’t the case. Mr. J was pleasant and comfortable, and we rubbed along together well enough. I knew there were secrets within the firm I wasn’t privy to, but the pay was outstanding and the w
ork well within my capabilities. I was content to let any concerns slide for the moment, at least until I was a well-established employee. My gut feeling told me the business was on the up-and-up, even if the exact nature of the dealings seemed very much hush-hush. Based on my previous experiences with my father’s business partners, I could tell when the books were being cooked or if something crooked was going on.
I didn’t get that impression at Redclaw, though clearly, the work was of a highly confidential nature. On the surface, the firm functioned as a glorified lost and found service. I’m being a little facetious, but that’s what the bulk of the inquiries seemed to entail. Finding missing relatives. Restoring lost items, typically heirlooms. Old, musty, and often hideous things where one had to assume the value was sentimental.
Sometimes, the firm provided security for private parties or special events. That clientele appeared well-heeled and reeked of old money, though I never recognized any of the faces or names from my own circle. In contrast to the rare wealthy client, a steady stream of odd-looking people came in and out during office hours, many clutching satchels or briefcases to their chests. When they entered, they eyed the room as warily as a gazelle approaching a watering hole. Miss Climpson rushed those clients straight into Mr. J’s office. I never even saw their paperwork.
But they often left empty-handed.
Once, when Miss Climpson was out of the office, someone dropped off an ornate carved wooden box with a heavy padlock. When I took the item to store it in Mr. J’s office until his return, I swore something alive moved within. I said as much to Miss Climpson when she came back from lunch, in case she needed to attend to whatever it was right away. She fixed me with an odd look before hurrying off to deal with the matter. I caught her staring at me on and off the rest of the afternoon.
After such visits, there were often new pins added to the maps on Mr. J’s wall. Since the pins were clustered around specific locations, I made a habit of checking the newspaper files in the library on the weekends, looking for stories connected to the locations in question. More than once, I found mention of strange happenings. Miss Climpson’s cuttings now took on new significance.
I went to work. I came home. I had money for food and the kind of little extras that make a girl happy. I saw the James Dean movie, and was impressed by this new actor’s emotional performance. I chatted with Em about her wedding plans, and entered the dates of the bridal shower, bridesmaid’s luncheon, rehearsal dinner, and wedding into my calendar. I bought a bottle of Fifth Avenue Red nail polish and some new outfits for work, but for the most part, socked my money away in case things got tight again. In the evenings, I read library books and mended my stockings.
Now and again, if truth be told, I thought about the beautiful, sad man I’d bumped into on the street the day of my interview. I wondered who he was, what he was doing, and why he’d said I hadn’t done him any favors by preventing him from getting hit by that car. Sometimes, before I drifted off to sleep at night, I’d entertain myself with stories about him.
There was a slight possibility that I imagined myself in those stories as well. I admit it. I was bored. Once you’ve flown at dawn over the Serengeti, or galloped a promising Thoroughbred on the track at Belmont, the life of a secretary, even at a mysterious firm such as Redclaw, was a bit tame.
I suppose I could have continued along these lines indefinitely, had it not been for the day of the mechanical spider.
I’d gotten into the habit of going out for lunch three or four days a week. My finances, while nothing compared to what they had been prior to my father’s death, now lent themselves to meals at the local diner. I would order the blue plate special (eating half and boxing the rest for dinner) and indulge in the occasional slice of pie. Miss Climpson and I arranged our schedules so someone always covered the reception desk, though I suspected she advised certain people not to call during her absence.
One day, I’d just returned from lunch. With a nod to Miss Climpson as she left on her break, I sat down to finish typing the morning’s notes. A soft skittering caught my attention, and I broke off from my work to listen.
After a long pause, during which I heard nothing but the faint hissing of the radiator, I shrugged and went back to typing. A few minutes later, the noise came again, the ticka-ticka-ticka of claws on tile, or scales brushing together.
The hair on the back of my neck rose.
I don’t scare easily, but some sounds you never forget. The dry paper rustle of a rattlesnake, complete with the characteristic final shakes as the rattle dies away. The angry hum of a swarm of hornets boiling out of a hive. The chuffing of a lion in the dark close to your position. These sounds scream, “Danger!”
This noise had the exact same effect on me.
I glanced around the office. I still heard the sibilant sound, but had trouble locating it. Without pushing back my chair, I peered under my desk.
There it was, a scant six inches from my foot. It had a large ovoid body, about the size of a small egg, and too many legs to count. I stifled a reflexive jerk backward, but was unable to contain the involuntary sound I made. A less than kind person might suggest it was a shriek, but I assure you; it was a mere gasp.
The problem remained what to do about the shiny creature.
On my desk sat a tall drinking glass filled with pencils and pens. These I poured out on the desktop. Taking a file folder in one hand and the glass in the other, I wheeled my chair back with my feet. The thing under the desk scurried away in alarm at the movement, faster than I’d been expecting. Hurrying around the corner of the desk, I saw it sitting in the middle of the room, two of its forelegs waving ominously as it faced me. Clapping a glass over the creature and sliding the folder beneath it wouldn’t work as long as it faced me with such aggression.
I glanced at my purse sitting on the corner of my desk. Nestled within, as always, was my trusty little gun. I thought perhaps Miss Climpson might take exception to my shooting up the office, but I seriously, if briefly, considered it.
I eyed my brand new suit jacket hanging on the back of my chair. I wasn’t able to afford anything as nice as the Chanel or Dior as I had in previous years, but the new clothes were serviceable and up to date. I flinched at the thought of perhaps ruining something I’d just purchased, clothing meant to last me a long time. Still, alone in the office with a giant spider, sacrifices would have to be made.
I set down the glass and folder and picked up my jacket instead. I made a wide, cautious circle around the creature which shifted in a flurry of legs to continuously face me. That unnerved me. As much as I abhorred the idea of making myself the slightest bit vulnerable, I slipped off one of my shoes and held it at the ready as I approached with the jacket. My exposed toes, sheathed in a cheap stocking, curled in self-defense as I moved with uneven steps toward the spider.
When it scuttled toward me, I tossed the shoe. The creature tracked the movement as one of my best pumps landed almost on top of it, and in that moment of confusion, I leapt forward with my jacket. I pounced on the shiny arachnoid, bundling it up, even as I worried about it stinging me through the cloth.
The moment I gripped the spider, I gained another piece of information that didn’t make sense. When I clamped down on the creature in the folds of my jacket, I felt a hard body. Harder even than one would expect from a shell. After unfolding one edge of the cloth, I dumped the spider onto my desk and clapped the glass down as it righted itself.
It ticked around within its little prison, tapping on the glass with silver legs. I could now examine it in safety, marveling at both its construction and its lifelike movement. How odd. It wasn’t a real spider, thank goodness, but mechanical. Whatever spring or motor propelled it was strong enough to rock the glass from side to side in an attempt to tip its prison over. I became alarmed enough to stack a dictionary and some other heavy books on top of the glass. I watched the spider out of the corner of my eye as I retrieved my shoe and tried to focus on the typing once more.<
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From time to time I’d run across the odd toy when assisting Mr. J in his office, like the Slinky, part of his incomprehensible filing system, that he used to designate important papers, or the putty I’d accidentally picked up the day of my interview. He had little tin cars tucked away in drawers, and once a toy metal throwing disc had fallen off the bookcase on top of my head. Sometimes while dictating, he liked to play with a Yo-Yo. He said it helped him think. But I’d seen nothing as advanced as the spider now tapping the walls of my water glass.
A malevolent aura clung to it like no toy I’d ever seen before, and its presence didn’t make me feel any better about it running loose in the building.
It was almost time for Miss Climpson to return from lunch when the outer door sprang open and Rick Russo blew in.
“Hello, Bishop.” He glanced over at Miss Climpson’s desk. “Climmy not back yet?”
“Any minute now.” I continued with my laborious typing. I suppose Russo was handsome in a dark, Italian way, but I didn’t feel a flicker of interest in him. I was starting to think Tommy’s “Ice Queen” designation for me was correct.
Russo came over to my desk to peer at the spider under the glass.
“Ho now, what’s that?”
“I’m not sure. I found the ugly thing when I came back from lunch. I thought it best to keep it contained until I could ask someone about the horrible little beast.”
When he straightened, Russo gave me a strange little smile. “You’re an odd duck, you know that, right?”
Concentration broken, I gave up and gave Russo my full attention.
“What do you mean?”
“Something like that would give most girls the heebie-jeebies. Here you are with the thing trapped under a glass, coolly going about your business.”
“I thought about burning the building down, but decided it would be counterproductive to retaining my job.”
He gave a short bark of laughter, which seemed to surprise him almost as much as it did me. “You’ll do, Bishop. You’ll do.”
