Itsy-Bitsy Spider

by Dale Mayer

  The man turned and looked at her. “Hello, Queenie.”

  *

  Kirk stared at Queenie, hating the fear on her face as soon as she saw him.

  She stared at him, walked around to the table and sagged into the chair. “What are you doing here?” she asked, her voice trembling.

  He stroked a hand through his hair. How did he explain when he wasn’t even sure himself? They had so much history. So many highs, so many lows, such a mess of a relationship, so much pain and ugliness … He’d done his damnedest to weather it all, but, in the end, it had broken them. He wasn’t even sure what words to give her to make her feel more at ease. “Your email.”

  He could almost see the wave of fear falling from her shoulders like a shawl she took off and laid on the chair behind her. Why? What was she afraid of?

  “What about it?” she asked. “I told you all I knew.”

  “Did you?”

  She glared at him, getting her spunk back.

  He loved that. She was never the kind to stay down for long. Even when she was at her absolutely most broken, she’d come out in the ring fighting. Unfortunately it seemed like she’d been fighting everyone, even him. All he’d tried to do was help her, but she couldn’t tell who was helping and who wasn’t. She’d sent him away, and, to his everlasting regret, he’d gone.

  She nodded. “He was only here for a couple minutes. He laughed at me because I was bothered by a spider, but he left, outraged at my words.”

  His heart slammed against his chest. “You told him something that upset him?” He watched the regret whisper across her face.

  “I didn’t think before it came out,” she said. “I was so upset at what I saw that I said something to him about him already knowing the owner was dead.”

  Kirk leaned over, placed his hands firmly on the table in front of her and glared at her. “Did you in any way indicate you knew he’d murdered this woman?”

  Her face went blank. And then she shrugged. “I don’t think so, but I don’t know. You know what it’s like when I get the visions. They come and they go. I grasp bits and pieces, but I don’t record everything.”

  He looked around at the table she worked behind and the absolutely ridiculous headdress sitting on the side of it. “What the hell are you even doing here? You have talent, real talent, and you’re sitting here, acting like some charlatan.”

  “I’m doing what I do because it’s what I do,” she said, her tone hard. “I don’t exactly have much in the way of career options. Nor can I keep working for the police when they’ve decided I was half-cocked and unstable. Plus they never paid for my assistance either—they didn’t want anyone to know they were listening to a psychic. So … that doesn’t work. … At least not anymore.”

  He hated the note of accusation in her voice. He understood it, but he hated it. “I didn’t have anything to do with that,” he said.

  Her smile, if anything, went more blank. She stared at him, her eyes, as always, huge wells of deep midnight blue. For the longest time he would succumb to the lure and completely bury himself in those eyes, in her life, their love all-encompassing, their passion all-overwhelming. When they made love, it was completely transported to something else. They forgot their surroundings; they forgot everything but what they were feeling. He wondered if her psychic ability had wrapped him into her same weird slice of life because it never felt the same before or after. He’d had relationships since, more to help him forget what he’d lost, and had never found anything even close.

  “Why do you keep putting yourself in danger?” he cried out in frustration.

  She looked at him. “Are you serious? Look where I am. What danger am I in?”

  “You called out a murderer.”

  “I don’t know that for sure,” she said instantly. “Besides, I was … off. … That damn spider had me off my game, so the murderer surprised me.”

  “Explain.” His voice was direct and hard, uncompromising.

  She shrugged. “It wasn’t much. Just something unusual.” At his look, she groaned and explained about the spider’s and this man’s arrival at the time. “I don’t know. I’m still not myself,” she muttered.

  “But you were sure enough that you contacted me.”

  Her back stiffened, and she just glared at him.

  He was sorry for making it sound so heartless. He knew she came from a place of deep pain, and he wished he could do something to help her. But there wasn’t anything. He’d already tried many times. “Back to this man. Can you describe him?”

  He watched as she closed her eyes and gave him a recital. “Six foot two, at least 280, most of it chest and belly. Blustery, arrogant, the world is his, and the rules don’t apply to him.”

  “Anything else?”

  “Going slightly bald on the top. His hair is dark, almost black, but gray’s etching in. His face has a florid complexion, definitely a double chin, dressed well. The child was more easily identifiable.”

  “What child?”

  “He came in with a small boy, holding his hand.”

  “What can you tell me about the boy?”

  “Five-years-old, wearing jeans with the cuffs rolled up, sneakers that had little lights when he walked.” Her voice softened as she described the child. “Plaid shirt. He wasn’t happy. He didn’t like being in the tent, and he didn’t like it when the man got angry. He flinched at the tone of voice the man used, and, when they turned, he was dragged out of the tent by the big man.”

  “What did he tell you exactly?”

  “He asked if he would get the property he was after.”

  Kirk listened while she continued with the message she gave him.

  “Tell me what you saw in your vision.”

  “A woman, early fifties, maybe blond hair, longish, floating around her head. She was just beneath the surface of the lake, maybe an hour’s drive from here. Her property borders a lake. There’s an old home. She’s slim, maybe too slim. But she’s at peace.”

  “What do you mean, she’s at peace?”

  “Her face is peaceful.” Queenie stopped, confused. “At least it feels that way.”

  “She’s dead,” he said. “Right?”

  Queenie nodded. “She’s dead. And it was not a natural death.”

  “How do you know that?”

  “Her throat has been sliced,” she said quietly. “But it’s still not enough for you to go on. It never is.”

  He stood back, his fingers jiggling the coins in his pocket as he studied her. “Something’s different this time though.”

  She stared at him. “What?”

  He lifted his gaze to a point in the tent behind her. “I had a young woman come in, reporting her mother as missing. Her property borders a lake. And it’s about an hour out of town.”

  Queenie stared at him. Then she held out her hand. He hated this part. It didn’t always happen when they touched—and it never happened, at least he didn’t think it ever happened, when they had sex—but, when she wanted to know something, it was her way of accessing it. He stared down at her hand.

  “Scared?” she challenged.

  He extended his hand and placed it on hers, hating she could still get that response from him. It wasn’t that he was scared; it was—

  “It’s her,” Queenie said softly. “It’s her mother.”

  “Every time you do that is so damn freaky.” Cautiously he added, “So you’re saying, if we go to that property … How will we find the mother’s body?”

  Queenie gave a sad smile. “She’s under the lake’s surface. You won’t see her unless you are almost on top of her. But she’s not close to her property. She’s on the far side of the lake.”

  “How did she get there?”

  “He used the woman’s boat, rowed it across and dumped her out. Other houses are around. He believes nobody saw him.”

  “Believes?” he pounced. He watched her eyes unfocus, going wide and black. Another process of hers that always unnerved him.
“Who?” he asked urgently. “You know we need witnesses.”

  But no answer was immediately forthcoming.

  He slowly went to pull away his hand, but she grasped it firmly. He waited, not sure what she was up to. With Queenie, one never knew.

  Her voice changed, became someone else’s voice. A man’s voice. “Somebody else saw him,” she said, almost trancelike.

  He stared at her, instinctively pulling back, but she wouldn’t let Kirk go.

  “Somebody not of this world. Somebody with abilities like mine. Somebody who’s watching him.”

  “Watching who?”

  “Watching the killer.”

  “Why would he do that?” They’d handled a couple twisted cases earlier on. Cases he still had trouble sleeping with. The last thing he wanted was to have another one.

  “It’s a game to him.” She opened her eyes, dropped his hand and stared at him, her eyes coming around, focusing on Kirk. “I didn’t just say that, did I?”

  He nodded. “Oh, hell yeah, you did.” He shook his head. “But I sure wish you hadn’t. You need to tell me who he is.”

  “I don’t know,” she said in a flat tone. “I don’t know who he is.”

  “How is that possible? He just took over your body, spoke the words you were thinking.” Shocked, he whispered, “Can you make sure he can’t connect again?”

  She gave a broken laugh. “I didn’t expect to connect now. … How can I stop him if he tries again?”

  “Did you learn to protect yourself at all?” he asked. “You always talked about needing to do more of that.”

  “Yes,” she said. “I’ve done a lot of work in that area. You’re right. The next time he tries, maybe I’ll stop him, now that I know he’s there.”

  “Next time?” he asked, his heart sinking. “How do you know there will be a next time?”

  “He’s not done,” she whispered, her eyes huge wells of grief. “He’s a killer himself. And he’ll kill again. But now that he knows I’m here, he wants to show me what he can do.”

  *

  He sobbed gently in his bed in his dark little room in the basement. His tiny body shook with pain. There was blood on his face, his hands. … He wanted to leave, … but the door was locked. It was always locked now. He’d wanted, begged, to go to school, but Daddy said it wasn’t going to happen.

  That made him all the sadder.

  One of the big spiders walked across the boy’s pillow.

  He whispered, “Please help me. Please … find someone to help me …”

  The spider walked closer. Then a second one and a third one.

  “Please,” he cried brokenly. “There has to be someone who can help.”

  Now dozens of spiders appeared. He watched with a happy smile as they waded through his blood to get to him, then over him and the bed to the wall, where they climbed up and out the crack in the window, like soldiers of the night.

  “Find her, … please.”

  *

  Well, as a contact went, she hadn’t been receptive. But she hadn’t been scared. Interesting how she’d connected to one of his subjects. He hadn’t seen that coming. She’d tried to shut down her defenses on him. But she wasn’t very skilled at that. She was one of those bleeding hearts, always open to helping others but not really capable of helping herself. She didn’t understand danger when it was there inside her already. And that was the fun part. All of this, all of her efforts to shut him out were for naught. He could step inside any time because, of course, he already was inside.

  What he wanted to do was watch her, keep an eye on her, see what was happening.

  He zapped out of that space, back over to the little family he’d been following for a few weeks now. He watched as the wife packed up her husband’s sandwiches. Her husband would go to work again, though he was sick, sick, sick. But he would keep trying. He had to do the right thing.

  The Watcher grimaced. “These bleeding hearts.” The world was full of them, and they were all useless.

  As the wife went to fill the coffee thermos, the Watcher made the wife’s hand reach for the white powder in the tub beside the coffee. She put another healthy spoonful inside the coffee and stirred it. Then she quickly closed the container with the white stuff and put it back on the shelf.

  The Watcher smiled. “Just like a good little wife.” He watched as she packed up the rest of the food and carried it out to her husband. “Sweetheart, you be careful today. And please, if you start to feel sick at all, come home.”

  Her husband leaned over, kissed her on the forehead and said, “I promise.”

  The Watcher looked on as the two of them hugged briefly and then separated. The little girl at Mommy’s side, tugging at her hands, said, “Daddy is sick, isn’t he?”

  The woman smiled down and nodded. “Yes, he is.”

  “The doctor says they can’t fix him, right?”

  The mother nodded. “But we can’t lose hope. We love him very much. We have to stay positive.”

  At that, the intruder just laughed. The man was dying. Still, he’d die from shock if he understood what had happened to him in the first place. And by whom.

  The intruder wasn’t putting his own career in danger. He watched the woman gather up her child in her arms, the two of them crying gently. That was perfect. The Watcher really did love a good sob story.

  Chapter 4

  Sunday, Noon …

  Queenie wanted Kirk to leave. She wanted to sort out what just happened to her. Who was this Watcher? What was he really doing? She didn’t even know how to explain this vision to Kirk, but it was like she’d been crushed into somebody’s embrace, an embrace she didn’t want, an embrace she couldn’t see but could only feel. It hadn’t been painful as much as an icy chill grabbing on and holding her tight. Forcing her to see what the Watcher wanted her to see. She didn’t know what it was, who it was, but somehow somebody had caught sight of her abilities. And had latched on—opening some communication channel without her permission.

  “Go away,” she whispered. “Please just go away.”

  “How am I supposed to do that?” Kirk cried out. “Look at you. You’re a wreck.”

  Slowly using every ounce of her energy, she utilized her outrage to stand and glare at him. “I am not your problem.”

  But, instead of backing away, he leaned over the table until they were nose to nose. “Why can’t I be a decent human being and worry about you? Why do you have to look at me as if I’m taking pity on you or some other stupid emotion? Why are you always pushing me away?”

  “Because you don’t give a damn.” Her voice was more of a snarl than anything. “You didn’t then and don’t now, so don’t try to fake it.”

  He stepped back as if she’d smacked him hard. He stared at her in bewilderment. “What are you talking about?”

  She sagged into her chair and waved her hand. “It’s all water under the bridge. Just leave.” She pointed at the tent opening behind her. “I’m supposed to be here making money, not making your arrest record look prettier.” Inside, she was breaking into pieces. She hadn’t meant to bring up all the old pain.

  “I’m not going anywhere, not until you explain yourself.”

  To his credit he did sound completely bewildered. Just then somebody poked their head through the tent door and asked, “Is it our turn yet?”

  She smiled. “Yes, absolutely it is. He’s just leaving.” She glared at Kirk. “I have to make a living.”

  He stood off to the side.

  She shook her head. “These sessions are private. Stand outside please.”

  He moved outside a little way from the door.

  She watched his back recede through the tent flaps with relief. Pulling all her resources together, she summoned up a smile for the child standing in front of her who must have been maybe twelve or thirteen. “What is it you would like to know?”

  Eagerly he stepped forward.

  Queenie worked her way through the line that had gathered o
utside while she’d been arguing with Kirk. Her coffee had long since gone cold. She thought she’d eaten the hot dog but even now wasn’t sure.

  When the little girl came in, her hair in rosy ringlets, Queenie smiled down at her. Queenie was so damn tired, but she could always give them something to look forward to. “What’s your name?”

  “Kirsten,” replied the child.

  “What would you like to know?” she asked Kirsten. She’d only given the mother half a glance. Her interest was solely on the little one.

  “I want to know if my daddy’s going to live.”

  And just like a sock to the gut, the breath rushed out of her mouth, and she sagged in her chair. She desperately tried to pull herself back together again. From the look on the mother’s face, the tears in her eyes, her trembling lips, Queenie understood the mother already knew the answer. There wasn’t much anybody could say to Kirsten to change this outcome. Unfortunately a whisper of the Watcher’s energy was still here. She deliberately cloaked her mind, pulling Kirsten and her mother into Queenie’s protective circle. She looked down at Kirsten and said, “Do you want him to live?”

  Kirsten’s head bobbed up and down. “Of course I do. He’s my daddy, and I love him. He wants to see Maddy because she’s a miracle worker,” Kirsten said as if repeating phrases she’d heard.

  “I’ve heard that. Has he tried to get onto Maddy’s Floor?”

  “He has,” Kirsten announced as if she knew all about the intricacies involved.

  Queenie turned to look at the mother. “Is this true? Is Dr. Maddy taking your husband’s case?”

  The woman shook her head. “No. We’ve been trying to get Dr. Maddy to help. But there’s no room on the floor,” she said sadly, adding, “And her schedule is booked months in advance.”

  “Have you contacted her personally?”

  The woman nodded. “I’ve tried, but it’s hard to get through.”

  Queenie thrummed her fingers on the table. “I don’t know her myself,” she said, “but I have heard about the marvelous work she does.”