Spider Web

by Earlene Fowler

  “Oh, no. That will be funny someday, I guess.”

  “Or not,” he replied, his face sober now. “She’ll be here as soon as she can. She had to find someone to stay with her mom.”

  “I wonder if she had any idea that Van was . . .”

  “No,” Gabe said, his voice firm. “She couldn’t possibly have . . .” He didn’t finish his sentence. We locked eyes. His begged me not to say anything more on it. Were we thinking the same thing? She might have suspected, but couldn’t face the truth. Sometimes a person wanted something so much that they ignored what was obvious, what was right there in front of them.

  Outside, crime scene tape completely circled the museum property, keeping the curious public and the media at a distance. The paramedics were wheeling Van’s gurney across the museum’s wooden floor when Yvette arrived. Without looking or speaking to anyone, she went to her husband, took his hand and looked down into his face. Everyone froze for a moment, waiting.

  “Van,” she said in a harsh, agonized voice. “Why?”

  He turned his head away and didn’t answer. She watched them wheel him away, her back as straight as an iron post. She turned and walked over to Gabe.

  “Detective Arnaud,” he said, his voice kind. “You are relieved of your duties on this case.”

  She nodded, swallowing a few times before she spoke. “I don’t know what got into him. Really, I don’t know why . . .” Her voice faltered and her eyes brimmed with tears. “I should have known.”

  “He’ll need an attorney,” Gabe said. “Why don’t you take some time off?”

  “Excuse me, Chief,” one of the uniformed officers broke in. “The media wants a statement for the evening news.”

  “I’ll be right there,” Gabe said. He placed his hand on Yvette’s shoulder. “Will you be okay, Detective?”

  “Yes, sir,” she said, raising her chin slightly. “I’ll be fine.”

  We watched Gabe walk toward the front doors where the media waited.

  “Are you really okay?” I asked Yvette. “Would you like some water?” I held out a bottle of water that someone had given me. “I didn’t drink out of it.”

  “No, thanks. I’m fine.”

  A group of detectives came up the stairs, chattering about Van’s capture. When they reached the top and saw Yvette, they instantly stopped talking. They glanced at each other, then looked away, embarrassed and unsure about how to react around her.

  “C’mon,” I said, grabbing her arm and pulling her into a side office where we kept brochures, extra supplies and where docents stored their personal items while working at the museum reception desk. I closed the door behind us. “You’ll have some privacy here.”

  “Like I’ll ever have privacy again,” she said bitterly. She looked past me, her face rigid with anger. “I had no idea. How stupid is that? I had no idea. I feel like such a fool. Why would he be so stupid? I don’t understand why.”

  “I don’t know. Maybe he’ll tell someone when . . . I don’t know . . . maybe he’ll tell you why.” My babbling embarrassed me into silence.

  She dropped her head, covering her face with her hands. In seconds, I could see her shoulders start to shake. I wasn’t sure what I should do. Though it felt awkward, I stepped closer to her and touched my hand on her shoulder. Her head jerked up. Her eyes were flooded with tears.

  “You know what’s crazy?” she said. “I still love him. Isn’t that nuts? That I could still love a man who tried to kill cops, who tried to kill my friends?”

  “We can’t help who we love.” I held out the water bottle. This time she took it. “What will you do?”

  She gripped the water bottle in her hand. “I don’t know. I’m all he has. His parents are dead. He has no siblings and no friends. How can I walk away?” Then she looked up, her eyes full again. “But how can I stay?”

  I had no answer.

  We stood inside the room for another ten minutes without speaking. Through the door we could hear a muted symphony of men’s voices, like the murmuring conversations in a troubling dream. Finally, there was a knock at the door and it opened.

  Gabe stuck his head in. “Benni? Someone said Detective Arnaud . . .”

  “I’m right here, Chief,” Yvette said.

  “You need to come to the station.”

  “Yes, sir.” She turned and handed me the half-empty bottle. “Thank you, Benni.”

  We watched her walk out the door.

  “How are Dove and Aunt Garnet doing?” I asked.

  Gabe rested a hand against the back of my neck, unconsciously kneading it. “They’ve been troopers, but they’re looking tired. They’ve given their statements and were interviewed by the Tribune. I was going to see if you could convince them to go home. Your dad and uncle are parked over by the mission. I’ll have an officer escort them out.”

  “I’ll try.”

  I found them sitting on a maroon velvet sofa in one of the Victorian exhibits. Gabe was right; they did look exhausted.

  “Hey, you hooligans, lounging on the exhibits is against museum rules. I’m going to report you.” I perched one hip on a carved sofa arm. The wood dug into my flesh. No wonder the Victorians were so crankylooking in photographs.

  “Gabe says we’re all done,” Dove said.

  “For now. Your chariot awaits. Or at least Daddy in his truck awaits. He and Uncle WW are parked a block away. Gabe said an officer will walk you out.”

  “Are you sure they don’t need us to give our statements again?” Aunt Garnet asked. She and Dove both seemed to be thoroughly enjoying their fifteen minutes of fame. But I also saw the fatigue and fragility in both their faces.

  “You’ll have the remainder of your lives to talk about this,” I said. “Aunt Garnet, you are now officially my favorite hostage partner. You’re a rock star.”

  “Why, thank you, Benni. I take that as a compliment.”

  Then I hugged my gramma, not wanting to let go. “You were simply magnificent. An Oscar-worthy performance. I’m proud to be related to the Honeycutt girls. Where would I have been without you?”

  “Oh, pshaw,” Dove said, patting me on the back. “You’d have thought of something if we hadn’t. You know my favorite saying . . .”

  “Old age and treachery always win out over youth and skill,” I filled in, laughing.

  “Amen, honey bun. You go on now and take care of your husband.”

  I leaned down and hugged her. “I’m going back to the station with Gabe. I think I’m gonna bird-dog him for the next few hours so he doesn’t get too stressed out.”

  “Keep us in the loop,” Dove said.

  “You know I will.”

  It was after four p.m., and I was sitting in Maggie’s office at the police station waiting for Gabe when I finally remembered my appointment with Lin Snider.

  “Oh, no!” I said, jumping up.

  “What is it?” Maggie asked, alarmed, turning from the tea she was steeping for both of us.

  I looked at my watch in panic. “I had an appointment to see someone at one o’clock.”

  Maggie laughed and turned back to her china teapot. “Sister, that train has left the station. I’m sure if they watch the news they realized you were a little tied up.” She giggled. “I mean, literally. It’s been the lead story for every broadcast. I heard AP picked it up. They might be hearing about you in Wichita.”

  “I’d better remind Gabe to call his mom and sisters. And his uncle and aunt in Santa Ana. But this appointment was really, really important, and I’m not certain she would be watching television today.”

  Maggie nodded over at her phone. “So, call her. Surely she’ll understand why you had to reschedule.”

  “Thanks.” I called the cell phone number I had for Lin, but there was no answer. Then I tried her hotel. They put me through to her room, but, again, no answer.

  Okay, I thought, I’ll try again in an hour. Maybe she gave up waiting for me and went out to eat.

  In the next few minutes,
Gabe finished up with the last of his meetings with various agencies involved in the sniper investigation. He stood in the doorway to his office, his face pale with fatigue.

  “You ready to go home?” he asked me.

  “Past ready.” I followed him into his office, waiting while he sat down behind his desk and turned off his computer. I went over to his window and looked out over the maintenance yards where two men in overalls were bent over the open hood of a black and white cruiser.

  “Gabe, there’s someone here to see you,” I heard Maggie say.

  I turned around in time to see Lin Snider walk into the room. She wore businesslike dark slacks, a white shirt and a tailored jacket. Her back was straight and her cheeks flushed. A surprised gasp lodged silent in my throat.

  I glanced over at Gabe, who was still fiddling with his computer.

  “Who is it?” he said.

  She said simply one word. “Ortiz.”

  He looked up. There was a moment of absolute quiet, when all I heard was my own breathing and the ticking of Gabe’s desk clock.

  Then, to my surprise, he straightened up and his hand slowly came up in a salute.

  “Lieutenant Spider,” he said.

  She laughed, then answered, “At ease, Marine.”

  CHAPTER 21

  THEY GRINNED AT EACH OTHER. THEN GABE WALKED ACROSS HIS office and put his arms around Lin, pulling her into a fierce hug. I stood there watching my worst nightmare come true.

  “I was going to wait until all of this sniper business was over before I came to see you,” Lin said, finally pulling away. “But I was worried about you. Old habits die hard, I guess.” She gave a sound that was half laugh, half sob.

  “I can’t believe it’s you,” Gabe said. “After all these years. How are you?”

  “We can talk about that later,” she said. “Right now, please, let’s fill Benni in. I can imagine what she must be thinking.”

  Gabe turned to me, his face lit up like a young boy’s at Christmas. “Benni, this is Lieutenant Linora Snider, R.N. She served three tours in Vietnam. Toughest soldier I’ve ever met, bar none. Tougher than most marines. And she wraps a mean bandage too.”

  Lin laughed, sounding young and carefree. “That hurts to say that, doesn’t it?” She arched an eyebrow at me. “I’m army, so that’s a real compliment from a marine. And he’s only saying that because I used to sneak him extra desserts. What I never told him was I did that for hundreds of guys.”

  “What?” Gabe exclaimed, a huge grin still on his face. “And I thought I was special.”

  She touched the side of her neck like she was going to brush hair away. Her hand fluttered nervously to her side. “Actually, Benni and I met a week ago, except I didn’t tell her I knew you.”

  Her candor flabbergasted me.

  Perplexed, Gabe looked from Lin to me then back to her. “Will someone tell me what’s going on?”

  “Shall I start or would you like to?” Lin asked me.

  “It’s a long story,” I replied. “Let me call my cousin and ask him to feed and walk our dog. I think we all need to go someplace quiet for dinner and talk.”

  “Great idea,” she said.

  We took Lin to our favorite Italian restaurant downtown, Daniello’s. Gabe and I were regular customers, so they accommodated our last-minute request for the private dining room in back. We ordered wine, antipasto, garlic bread, salad and lasagna. Daniello’s served their food family style.

  While we filled our plates, I asked Gabe the first question. “I’m curious about something. When Lin walked into your office, am I crazy or did you call her Lieutenant Spider?”

  Gabe grinned. “That was my nickname for her. When I was brought in with my injury from the Bouncing Betty, I also had a bad concussion and a high fever.”

  “Malaria,” Lin said, sipping a glass of wine.

  “I was in and out of it for a day or so,” Gabe continued. “She introduced herself, but my brain was so fuzzy that I thought she said her name was Lieutenant Spider. I called her that for days before someone finally corrected me. By then, it had become a kind of joke, and everyone started calling her that.”

  “Yeah, thanks so much for that, Ortiz,” she said.

  Gabe just couldn’t stop grinning. “Nicknames were big in ’Nam. It meant you were liked.”

  “Unless it was a bad nickname,” Lin said.

  Gabe nodded and winked at me.

  “So, Lin was your nurse,” I said, trying to keep my voice light. Is that all? The photograph of Tessa kept coming back to me. Would Lin mention the girl?

  “He was a big help to me once he got better,” Lin said. “Before they shipped him back.” She reached over and touched Gabe’s hand. “I missed you when you left.”

  Gabe took her hand; his expression softened. “Do you ever hear from any of the other guys? Little Joe? Packie? Arturo?” He looked across the table at me. “We were the four amigos. At least, that’s what we called ourselves. We weren’t in the same platoon, but we all were Lieutenant Spider’s patients at the same time.”

  Lin pulled her hand away and picked up her wine. “You didn’t keep up with them?”

  Gabe looked down at his plate. “No, I got busy. You know.”

  “Packie committed suicide in 1992. Pills and booze. His wife found my name and address in a journal he kept. The address was an old one, but the landlord knew where I was living, so he forwarded the funeral program to me. I wrote his wife and she wrote back telling me about how he died.”

  A flicker of pain wrinkled Gabe’s forehead. “Man, that sucks.” “Yeah,” she said.

  “What about Little Joe?” he asked. “And Arturo.”

  “Little Joe lives in Oklahoma now. He’s been married and divorced four times. Works at a tire place. Drinks a lot, but he’s doing okay. He’s making it day by day.”

  “Wow,” Gabe said, shaking his head.

  “Yeah.”

  “Arturo?”

  She hesitated, and an expression of pain flickered in her eyes. “He died in a car accident.”

  Gabe was silent for a moment. “When?”

  “A long time ago. In 1978. On the Fourth of July. Crazy, huh?”

  “I never knew. I didn’t . . . keep up with many people. Just a friend from Kansas. Dewey.” A friend who ended up betraying and almost killing him. “I didn’t really want to talk about ’Nam when I got back to the States so I never looked for anyone.”

  “Most of us felt that way. It wasn’t that kind of war. Not like our fathers’ war.” She turned to me, attempting to include me in the conversation. “We didn’t come back in huge groups like our fathers did after World War II. It felt like once we were done with our tour in Vietnam, our country was ashamed of us. It felt like they were trying to sneak us back into society one by one through the back door. It almost felt like they didn’t want us to find each other. And what’s really awful is many of us accommodated them.”

  Gabe nodded in agreement. “For almost ten years I didn’t tell anyone I was a Vietnam veteran.”

  In the dim light of the restaurant, her half smile was sad. “That’s sort of what I want to talk to you about.” She reached down and pulled something out of her purse. It was the photo of Tessa in front of the bottlebrush bush in Los Angeles.

  “Who’s this?” Gabe asked, picking up the photo.

  “Tessa, my daughter.”

  He studied the photo closely, then smiled. “She’s lovely. What a beautiful smile.” His words were sincere; his expression was not condescending or full of pity. He meant what he said. Which was one of the reasons why I loved him.

  Looking at her face when he said it, seeing the expression of pride and shy joy at his compliments, I knew in that moment that whatever happened from this encounter, it could only be good.

  “I need your help, Gabe,” she said, taking another sip of her wine. “Yours too, Benni. I don’t have anyone else and . . . Arturo . . . he always told me if I ever needed help, that I should come to
you or Packie or Little Joe. That you were men who could be depended on . . . that you’d help me.”

  Gabe set the photograph down. “What do you need?”

  She looked down at the photo. “She’s Arturo’s daughter. She was conceived in Vietnam. The war will follow her always. He adored her.”

  After hearing her first sentence, relief washed over me like a flooded river. My feelings shamed me, but selfishly, I was glad that Tessa wasn’t Gabe’s child.

  “How can we help you, Lin?” Gabe asked.

  “I want you to take my daughter.”

  “What?” Gabe’s eyebrows moved together, perplexed.

  “Please,” she said. “I’m dying.”

  CHAPTER 22

  “THE CANCER IS INOPERABLE,” SHE SAID. “IT’S IN MY PANCREAS, my liver and now they’ve found spots in my brain. The doctors say it could be a month, six months, a year. No one knows. But I’m definitely dying.”

  “I’m so sorry,” I said. “Oh, Lin, I’m sorry.”

  She looked from Gabe to me, clutching the photo of Tessa. “This is crazy, I know. But I have no family. Neither did Arturo. Tessa lives in an assisted living home with other Down syndrome adults. She’ll have my pension and my Social Security. I have it set up in a trust with an attorney. Financially, she’ll be fine, but . . .” Her voice faltered. “The people who run the home are great, but . . .”

  “She needs a family,” I said.

  “Yes, yes!” she said, tears flowing freely down her cheeks. “It’s crazy, but for the last month I’ve searched out six people who I knew back in ’Nam, people that Arturo knew and trusted. But none of them fit. None of them seemed right. I mean, it can’t just be them, but their family has to be okay with it and . . .”

  Her blue eyes pleaded with me. “I’m sorry it appeared I was stalking you. I just had to know. I had to make sure that if I asked this of Gabe that his wife and family would be okay with it. I don’t want Tessa to live somewhere she isn’t wanted.”

  “Why did you go through the ranch house where my first husband and I lived?” I asked.