Spiders in the Grove

by J. A. Redmerski

  And Nora—screw Nora.

  Fredrik moves away from the dead man near the desk, and pulls a black handkerchief from his suit jacket pocket, wiping his hands on it.

  “Victor isn’t here because he was shot,” he says, and I blink, stunned. “Nora called me an hour ago; he’s going to survive, but she says he hasn’t spoken to anyone since Nora took him to Mozart. She’s worried.”

  Mozart is a surgeon who works for Victor in times like these, to keep our business out of the hospitals and such. And why didn’t Nora call me? I’m Victor’s brother. God, I hate that woman.

  “Worried about what?” I say. “What’s there to worry about if he’s not gonna die?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “And since when does Nora worry about anyone?” I ask.

  “That’s what worries me,” Fredrik says.

  “Well, now I’m worried.”

  After a moment, I say, “I have something to do before I go see Victor.” I head for the door, grabbing a briefcase full of money on my way. “If you see Izzy before I do, tell her I said…never mind, I’ll tell her myself.”

  Fredrik nods.

  Izabel

  I had stolen a car from the mansion, and drove as far as I could before it ran out of gas. I’d been walking alone in the desert for hours before Naeva and Leo picked me up, a semi-automatic clutched in my hand, no shoes on my feet, dress stained with blood. I was standing in the middle of the dirt road, gun pointed at the car as it came toward me. I almost shot them both—and my only ride. So, Javier was telling the truth about letting them go.

  “We’ve been looking all over for you,” Naeva says the moment I get inside the car. “We drove back to the mansion to see everybody dead. But not you”—she smiles at me in the backseat—“I didn’t even check all the bodies; I knew you were still alive. So, we left looking for you.”

  I smile weakly back at her. “I guess I should thank you.”

  “Thank me?” Naeva shakes her head; her eyebrows crumple. “I owe you my life, Sarai—we both do.” She touches Leo’s arm; he glances over his shoulder at me, thanking me with his eyes. I wonder why he’s driving after being shot, but it doesn’t seem to bother him; or, more likely, he’s ignoring the pain.

  Wanting to avoid any comments that paint me as some kind of hero, I change the subject.

  “What was the deal?” I ask Leo. “Why did Javier let you go?”

  “He’s going bring me back—my name,” Leo says in broken English. “I fight for him and he no kill Naeva.”

  I doubt Leo Moreno will have any trouble bringing back his name—I don’t think it ever really died.

  “How do you feel about that?” I ask. “About fighting again?”

  Naeva glances at me, dejection in her face—she definitely doesn’t like the arrangement.

  “I do anything for Naeva,” Leo says. “Besides, fighting is all I know. It all I ever done.”

  “Well, you’ve been relieved of your contract with Javier Ruiz,” I tell him. “He’s dead. I killed him.”

  Naeva’s eyes slowly brighten, followed by a thankful smile; I can tell she wants to wrap her arms around me, and she would if she wasn’t in the front seat and I in the back.

  Leo’s face never changes. In fact, he doesn’t say anything. And I don’t ask why.

  The rest of the ride is quiet.

  As we approach the El Paso border, I brace myself for whatever scene plays out with border patrol agents there. None of us exactly look like innocent American tourists coming back from fun in the sun on a Mexican beach. We look like we just escaped a compound and killed a hundred people on our way out. I still have the semi-automatic—illegal in Mexico—it’s laying on the seat beside me. And Leo Moreno is still Mexican, and I’m not sure about his legal status in the United States. In fact, I doubt anyone has any sort of ID on them—I sure as hell don’t. I’m pretty sure the car was stolen, too.

  Leo pulls up for his turn at the crossing, and two border patrol agents approach the car. They look inside. One notes the gun on the seat; the bloodstained clothes; the everything-wrong-about-this-picture.

  Leo hands the other agent a yellow slip of paper; the agent looks down at it, and then he blinks a few times as understanding spreads over his features.

  A moment later, after the second agent comes around to inspect the paper too, they wave us on quicker than anyone else.

  “What was that?” Naeva asks Leo.

  “Documentation from Javier,” he answers, keeping his eyes on the Texas road ahead of him. “My first new fight is going be in El-lay-ah.”

  “El-lay-ah?” I ask.

  “L.A.,” Naeva clarifies.

  I knew that already—I speak fluent Spanish—so I’m not sure why I forgot. Maybe now that Javier is really dead, and I’m done with Mexico, the things I learned there will fall away with it. I doubt it.

  Leo said “is” not was—he’s still going to fight even though, with Javier dead, he doesn’t have to. I wonder how Naeva feels about that. Again, I don’t ask. It’s none of my business, and while a part of me is a little curious, the rest of me has more important things to think about.

  The sky is gray-yellow over the Texas landscape, the early morning sun still waking up on the horizon. I lay down on the backseat next to the gun and shut my eyes, but I don’t fall asleep. Too much on my mind. Like what I’m going to do next, where I’m going, how much of what Javier told me that I’m going to tell Victor. Maybe I won’t tell him anything yet. I began this mission on my own, and I’d like to finish it the same way. I may be done with Mexico, but technically, I’m not done.

  ~~~

  Sometime during the ride, I did eventually fall asleep, because now as my eyelids crack open to the sound of Naeva’s voice, I realize I’m back in Arizona. Back at home.

  “Sarai, we’re here,” she says; I feel her hand on my shoulder.

  I raise up from the seat, surprised I could’ve slept so long and so well after everything I’d just been through, all the people I killed. Cesara. Joaquin. Javier. The ones without names. The only person who died in Mexico that I think about though, is Sarai. But she died a long time ago, and I wasn’t the person who killed her. Or was I?

  I get out of the car.

  “You can come inside and rest for a while,” I offer, leaning on Naeva’s open window.

  “Gracias,” Leo says, always so kind and respectful for a man who’s probably killed more men than me. “But we need to get to El-lay-ah. People expecting me.”

  I nod. “Thank you for the ride.”

  “De nada,” Leo says.

  Naeva gets out of the car and finally gets her arms around me. “I owe you everything, Sarai,” she says, squeezing me. “I wish I could’ve helped more, but in the future, if you ever need anything from me, don’t hesitate to ask. I don’t care what it is.” She pulls away, holds my elbows in her hands, and looks into my eyes, and I can’t help but see Huevito standing there. “Thank you,” she says at last.

  I smile softly at her, and she gets back inside the car with Leo. They drive away, and I wonder if they’ll make it. Not to Los Angeles. Not as a couple—they’ll be in love until the day they die—but I wonder if they’ll make a life together before they’re murdered. Because it’ll happen eventually. A name and face like Leo Moreno’s is both a gift and a curse. I hope their love can last a lifetime. I hope they make it.

  I hope my and Victor’s love can be half as obvious as theirs one day.

  I hope we make it…

  After fishing for the house key in the soil of a potted plant, I step inside my house and immediately detect something is off, though I’m not sure what. Maybe it’s that I’ve been gone so long, or that I got used to hearing Apollo shouting at me from the basement. It’s so quiet in here, so empty. It’s actually kind of nice having him gone and me having the house to myself. But that’s only temporary as I’ve got to bring him back soon and finish what I started. I just hope Fredrik hasn’t killed him.

>   I put a cell phone on the charger and call Fredrik, but he doesn’t answer, so I hop in the shower and stay there for a long time, letting the hot water beat down on me and soak into my hungry muscles. I watch blood and dirt swirl down into the drain and take everything else with it that I brought back from Mexico. After my much-needed shower, I lay down on the sofa, intending to relax for about thirty minutes before getting back to work, but I end up passing out again, and waking up after two in the morning.

  I try calling Fredrik again—still no answer.

  I call Victor—no answer.

  Niklas—nothing.

  Nora—nope.

  What the hell?

  A strange feeling sits in the pit of my stomach. After grabbing my keys from the coffee table, I slide into my flip-flops by the door and jump into my car parked under the carport.

  There’s a light on inside Fredrik’s temporary new house twenty minutes from mine. His car is parked outside alongside another one. Maybe he’s getting laid, and I should just turn around and go back home. No. Fredrik would answer the phone no matter how preoccupied, if any one of us from Victor’s Order were calling him. The same with Victor—it hurts a little that he, of all people, doesn’t answer, especially since I’ve been in Mexico for weeks. Niklas and Nora aren’t much the phone type, so they not answering isn’t so unusual, but it still picks at that feeling in my stomach.

  I get out of the car and make my way to the front door, my eyes scanning the window into the living room on my way up the porch steps, but I don’t see anybody.

  After a few knocks, and still no movement inside the house, I let myself in, surprised the door is unlocked—Fredrik always locks his doors.

  With my gun in-hand, I go through the living room and startle when Fredrik comes around the corner.

  “You scared the shit out of me.” I lower my gun.

  “Sorry.” Fredrik walks past me and heads toward the kitchen; there’s blood on his hands.

  Knowing something is wrong, I don’t ask questions for a moment, expecting Fredrik to get around to telling me.

  He comes back out of the kitchen, hands cleaned, and drying them off on a dish towel.

  “Did you kill Apollo?” I finally ask, assuming that’s whose blood he just washed down the drain.

  “No.”

  No? That’s it?

  “Fredrik, what’s going on?” I glance down the hallway in the direction where he had come from; the basement door is open at the end; a dim light pools on the floor in front of it.

  “Izabel, you need to leave.”

  “Why?”

  “Because I want you to.”

  Ok, something’s definitely wrong.

  I head straight for the basement door, and then sprint down the concrete steps when I hear the rush of Fredrik’s footsteps coming up from behind to stop me.

  When I make it to the bottom, I gasp at the gory sight, and even throw up a little in my mouth. My free hand flies over my face. “Holy shit, Fredrik! What the hell did you do?”

  Despite the horrific scene, I move in closer to the man laying strapped to a hospital bed, and at first, I’m furious that Fredrik would kill Apollo. But it’s not Apollo, I see. It’s…Dante? The skittish man from the auction. His bloodied face is almost unrecognizable; his mouth has been propped open with some weird device; all of his teeth are gone; his gums have been slashed open; blood is everywhere.

  “Oh my God.” I pause, letting the discovery sink deep enough into my brain that I know it’s real; then I turn to see Fredrik. “Assistant to Amell Schreiber; that’s where I’d heard that name before; it’s one of your aliases. Dante was basically telling the truth. You sent him.”

  “Yeah. I sent him.” Fredrik’s shoulders fall with a heavy breath, and although I’d expect him to be apologetic, having to admit that he’d done exactly what I told him not to do, I get the feeling he has far worse things on his mind, and so I decide to save the scolding for another time.

  “Why is he dead?” My eyes move back and forth from Fredrik to Dante. “Why’d you kill him?”

  “I didn’t kill him.”

  My head snaps around.

  “You didn’t kill him?”

  Back and forth. Dante. Fredrik. Dante. Fredrik.

  Fredrik wipes sweat from his forehead with the dish towel.

  “I really need you to leave.”

  “I’m not going anywhere until you tell me what’s going on—and where’s Apollo?” I feel like I’ve been gone months rather than weeks, everything is so…fucked up, so different.

  “I did kill him,” Fredrik says.

  “OK, so then which is it? You killed him, or you didn’t?”

  “Godammit, Izabel—I killed him. I had to. I don’t expect you to understand, but…it is who and what I am”—he gestures at the body—“this is what I do, what I need, and…I don’t want you here. Not today. Not tomorrow. In fact, it’s probably best we part ways and never speak to each other again.”

  All words have left me; the only thing I feel is hurt. I just stare at him a moment, my chest constricting.

  Finally, I decide that Fredrik just needs time; he’s going through something that I can’t help him with, and the things he just said he only said in the heat of the moment.

  “Where’s Apollo?” I ask again, hoping he’ll at least tell me that before I leave him to his…issues.

  Fredrik pauses; I hear him take a breath. “He’s dead,” he says, and then the rest falls into my ear like an avalanche of bad news. “I’m assuming Victor found him, which means he knows I was helping you behind his back—and for that he’ll never trust me again. Apollo couldn’t have gotten away on his own; he was set free.”

  OK, it’s good he’s at least speaking to me and not dragging me out the door.

  “But what makes you think Victor—”

  “Victor was shot,” Fredrik reveals, and I gasp, and the avalanche starts pressing on my chest, crushing me. “By Artemis. Nora killed Apollo, but Artemis got away. I think Victor was who set Apollo free. I don’t know for sure, but it’s what my gut tells me—and the fact that Victor refused to see me when I went to check on him.”

  “Victor was shot?” That’s the only part of what he said that I really heard. “Is he…is he OK?” My chest rises and falls heavily.

  “He’ll live,” Fredrik says.

  “Where is he?” I ask, already moving up the basement steps; I stop on the top.

  Fredrik looks up at me from the bottom.

  “He’s with Mozart.”

  I start to leave, but his voice stops me.

  “I meant what I said, Izabel. Don’t ever come back here. Forget you ever knew me. I never want to see you again.”

  The pain of his words digs deeper, but I do all I can to ignore it, to force myself to believe that he doesn’t mean anything he said, and that we’ll be back to normal in a few days.

  He just needs time, I tell myself.

  Fredrik turns and moves away from the bottom step without another word; I watch his shadow moving on the floor for a moment.

  Having dire issues of my own to tend to, I leave his house quickly, but with a heavy heart, and I fling open the car door and thrust the key into the ignition. I drive non-stop to Mozart’s house.

  Fredrik

  I go back to cleaning up the mess with Dante the serial killer left for me. He’s been dead about nine hours; the last I heard from him was when his plane landed and he called me from the airport. I’d told him to go straight to my house and wait for me; I told him he’d be safe here. Strange thing is, in that moment, I wasn’t exactly sure what made me say that to him to begin with, that he’d be safe here. Nobody was looking for Dante; he wasn’t in any danger as far as I knew—after what happened at the mansion in Mexico, even if he’d blown his cover, there wasn’t anybody left alive to hunt him down. “You’ll be safe there,” I told him, and I’ll never forget it.

  It was odd enough a thing to say that I’d made note if it. But I didn’t
understand it until I got here myself and found him dead. That was when everything began to make sense: the feeling of having eyes at my back weeks ago the night Dante left for Mexico—she was here, at my house; she knew where he was going. And then later that same day when I was in the library meeting with Kenneth Ware—she was there, in plain sight. I believe she was the woman who walked past our table; who made me stop to think about her at all. She’s been following me; she probably knows more about me than I know about myself.

  It was instinct that knew Dante was in trouble, that she’d intended to use him to send me a message. Unfortunately, the rest of me didn’t figure it out in time to save him.

  Beside Dante’s body, reflecting the light from the ceiling is a small mirror. For the first time since I walked down here, I pick it up, and I look at my reflection; tiny speckles of blood dot the glass. I know she wants me to look at myself; I know she made Dante look at himself before she killed him. And I want to know why. Not because I’m angry, and answers to the most typical questions are important, but because it intrigues me—she intrigues me.

  Sweeping my finger along the edge of the bloodied bed, it’s almost as if I can sense every place her delicate hands had been; I can smell her natural scent on the air; I can almost see her reflection within the mirror along with my own.

  “What do you want me to see?” I whisper into the semi-darkness of the sweltering basement.

  I set the mirror back into its place, the same way she left it.

  Izabel is still inside my head; it had to be this way; I had to say the things I said, or else she could end up like Dante. I don’t fully believe that—this killer, from what I’ve seen so far only kills men—but I didn’t want to take any chance. Izabel is important to me; she’s like a sister to me. Dante’s death is forgivable, but if the killer were to kill Izabel, it would be harder to forgive. And the part of me that wants to know who this woman is, the part of me that wants to know her intimately, is the part that will forgive her, no matter who she kills.