Black Widows

by Cate Quinn

  I grab a jar of sweet corn. Guess this’ll be dinner.

  Then I notice something. One of the lower jars is different from the rest. The lid is the old kind that Rachel doesn’t like to use anymore. It’s tucked behind some other more recently canned foodstuffs, almost as though someone has tried to hide it.

  Curious, I squat down and wrap my hands around a four-gallon jar of potatoes and pull. At first, it doesn’t shift. I dig in, wiggling it to and fro, and slowly it begins to edge off the shelf.

  The front slides forward suddenly, and I catch it just in time. It’s heavy, but I’m able to kinda swing it to the side and place it upright.

  The jar behind it looks wrong. Less packed. Something floating inside.

  I pull out my cell phone and turn on the flashlight. The back shelf is lit up, revealing potatoes and beets in every direction but one.

  The jar I’m fixed on. It takes me a full few seconds to realize what I’m seeing. When I do, I stagger back, hand over my mouth, flashlight swinging crazily up to the ceiling.

  Floating eerily in the jar are three severed fingers.

  Chapter Ninety-Six

  Emily, Sister-Wife

  Mrs. Nelson showed up within the hour, but you could tell she wasn’t too happy about it. That’s the thing about Latter-day Saints; we have to do the right thing no matter what. Catholics have a little more leeway.

  There wasn’t any bail to pay, so we just went right on out to Mr. Nelson’s car and got inside. Not much conversation. I guess she was too mad. I figure she’s real good at keeping things in, so she’s not going to get shouty like my momma would have. Blake once told me the only time he ever heard Mr. and Mrs. Nelson have a verbal disagreement was when Mrs. Nelson was tipped off about a suedette court shoe discounted to half price at Walmart, and Mr. Nelson made her wait two days for the weekly store cash discount and it sold out.

  I get the impression Mrs. Nelson has run out of outfits now. Like there’s no established ensemble for driving your son’s widow home after she’s confessed and then unconfessed to his murder.

  She’s wearing a pair of white jeans I never saw her in before, a plaid shirt, and makeup like she’s done it in a hurry. Her blond hair is caught back in a ponytail behind. Kinda like an aging cowgirl. Maybe Mrs. Nelson has just let go of a few things too.

  I kinda let myself drift off a little. I had a lot to think about.

  “I believe in forgiveness,” Mrs. Nelson tells me as we get out onto the desert road. “I’m not sayin’ it will be easy, Emily. But I want you to know Mr. Nelson and I plan to work real hard on it.”

  I try to thank her, but it comes out wrong.

  Truth is, I hadn’t really thought through the effect of my actions on her. I feel selfish now. Kinda wish I’d just waited for Brewer to drive me in the morning.

  We’re out on the highway, road rushing by. I’ve gotten myself ready for a long silence when all of a sudden, Mrs. Nelson glances across at me.

  “You were trying to protect Rachel, weren’t you? Mislead the police. Keep her out of their questioning. What I don’t understand is why.”

  I look out the window. She never will understand either. I already lost one mother. That’s about the worst sin in the world. If I’d have died saving Rachel, God would have cleared my balance sheet. Least that’s how I figure it. But it looks like it’s not going to work out that way.

  Real shame, too, because I happen to know the State of Utah allocates twenty-five dollars for the last meal of death-row prisoners, and that can be spent on anything, including Domino’s Pizza and full-size Coke.

  “That woman always did have a hold over people I could never understand,” says Mrs. Nelson. I don’t answer that, since it doesn’t seem aimed in my direction, and she sounds mad about it.

  Mrs. Nelson starts looking real sick the farther out into the wilderness we go. Guess she’s only just coming to terms with it all.

  “So this is where you all hid yourselves away,” she mutters to herself. “Beautiful, I suppose.”

  I contemplate telling her we are driving along an old riverbed, since I remember Blake being oddly proud of this fact, but decide against it. We never saw eye to eye on scenery. He once took me to Canyonlands National Park shortly after we were married, and I was disappointed because I thought we were visiting a Wild West place with the banks and saloons. Instead, we walked about a million miles to this big twisted arch of rock, and Blake pointed out the craters below and talked about how it looked like the surface of another planet. I said it reminded me of a giant tiramisu where someone had dragged a big spoon to carve out the layers. This was a not-too-subtle hint that I was hungry and hoping we’d visit the pizza restaurant on the road out, and Blake got mad for some reason, so we left.

  Mrs. Nelson is still talking.

  “Blake always did love mountains, nature… There was a little songbird used to come to the yard, and he…” She gets all choked up. Starts crying softly to herself. I feel like I’m intruding on her grief. Like we shouldn’t be sitting so close. I just look straight ahead, twisting up the hem of my shirt.

  I sneak a glance across at Mrs. Nelson. She isn’t making crying noises, but tears are pouring down her face.

  “Mrs. Nelson,” I say quietly, “you can just drop me at the edge of the compound. You don’t need to come all the way to the door.”

  She nods, not taking her eyes from the road. “Thank you,” she adds. “I don’t think I’m ready to see it yet.” She takes a deep breath as we approach, and her eyes fill with tears. “I never gave up on him,” she tells me in a whispery sad voice. “I knew he wasn’t happy. Not since Mexico. Couldn’t concentrate on his studies well enough to graduate. That sales job was making him crazy. I knew. I tried to help him. My husband said you have to leave men to make their own mistakes. But if we had just lent him the money to finish college…” Her voice cracks.

  I don’t reply, because I don’t think that would have helped. I have a memory of Blake talking about going back to finish his accounting degree after he married Tina. Rachel didn’t approve at all, and she and Tina had this battle about who was holding Blake back, who knew him best. Then Rachel took out an accounting book from Salt Lake City library, and looking at all those numbers kinda made Blake’s head swim, I think. He had one of his black episodes, and Tina never mentioned it again.

  “I think Blake meant well, Mrs. Nelson,” I tell her. “He just found some things too hard.”

  She nods, and there’s an expression in her eyes like she so badly wants to believe her son was good.

  By the time we get to the fence marking our property, Mrs. Nelson’s hands are shaking on the steering wheel.

  “Are you okay, Mrs. Nelson?” I ask her. “Do you want me to fetch you a glass of water or something?”

  She shakes her head real quick, tears flying from her eyes. “I need to get on the road,” she says. “It’s already getting dark.”

  I move to open the car door.

  “Will they arrest Rachel?” she blurts out.

  I hesitate.

  “I think they intend to, Mrs. Nelson,” I tell her. “The police are going out to the Homestead to pick her up.” I take a breath. “Mrs. Nelson, I’m real sorry for what I did. For everything.”

  She gives this tight little nod, like she forgives a little but not the whole way. Then all of a sudden, she speaks.

  “You know, when Blake first told me about you, I actually considered he might have had a revelation,” she says. “At the very least, I thought you might bring something to the household. Temper Rachel’s control over Blake. Then I met you, all big-eyed and teenage, without a sane thought in your silly head, and I realized.” She shakes her head in disgust. “Blake was just greedy.” She turns to face forward again, hands on the steering wheel, very straight-backed and sad.

  I don’t think that is very nice at all of
Mrs. Nelson. But if there’s one thing I’ve learned about living with other women, it’s that sometimes when people are real mad, just leave them be.

  I get out of the car. Mrs. Nelson pulls away without a word, leaving me standing in the quiet desert evening.

  Good thing too, ’cause I got things to do up here I don’t want anyone to see.

  Chapter Ninety-Seven

  Tina, Sister-Wife

  I couldn’t tell ya how long I sat looking at those goddamn severed fingers. All I know is it’s gotten real dark outside. Somehow I’ve been glued to the spot. Just no idea what to do with the information, I guess.

  Oh shit.

  I close my eyes, tryin’ to process what in the hell this means. It all comes down to one thing.

  It was her. Rachel.

  The fingers float in a cloudy brine. Shreds of ghostly pale, ragged flesh drift where they’ve been hacked at the joint. A tuft of reddish hair can be seen right above the knuckle of one. Below is circled by a familiar ring.

  Blake’s wedding band.

  Did she even know what she was doing? It’s coming together in my head. Rachel was canning the morning Blake was found.

  That means… I close my eyes, tryin’ to think.

  Rachel loved Blake. I’m sure of it. None of her killin’ him makes sense, unless…

  Blood atonement.

  The thought sorta rushes into my brain. What if Rachel did love Blake but thought him guilty of some sin bad enough to keep him out of heaven? Something that could only be purged by Blake’s blood falling to the ground as he died?

  I’m tryin’ to figure it out. If Rachel really coulda done it.

  What sin might Blake have committed? I rattle through my brain, but my Bible studies aren’t good enough. There are three unforgivable sins. One is murder of an innocent. I can’t call to mind the others. Adultery?

  I hear the rumble of a car engine. That can only mean one thing. Rachel is home. When I think how I would wait for that sound. It was the best part of my day. Now I’m frickin’ terrified. I hop to my feet, go to the front window, but it’s too late. She’s parked. I can’t sneak out without her seeing me.

  Oh shit, oh shit, oh shit.

  No. She didn’t do it. Rachel never woulda killed Blake.

  Pretend she did, whispers a voice. How would she have done it?

  I track through, assuring myself.

  She was gone for long enough to get down to the stream and back. She would have to have had a spare set of clothes in her storehouse. Changed for dinner, gone back later at night to wash her bloody dress in the canning machine when no one was around.

  She must have nerves of steel. I kinda shudder. I’ve been living with her. At any point, she could have decided I knew too much.

  The car door slams, and I hear Rachel’s footsteps, but she doesn’t call out like she usually does. A slow fear pounds at me as the full reality of my situation dawns. I’m trapped out alone in the desert. No phone signal, no people for miles around.

  Panic. Panic. I try to get together.

  You grew up in a meth den with a bunch a pimps, I tell myself. You can look after yourself. You’re a fighter.

  But actually, all I feel is fear. My legs are weak with it; my arms feel watery and limp. I can’t think of a single advantage I have out here over Rachel. I got nothing.

  Yes, you do. You can lie. She can’t.

  Pretend you don’t know. Hope her repression holds.

  I glance around the room, then deposit myself on the couch where I might usually be. I pick up the Bible we always have lying around and open it at random. The words blur.

  What would Rachel have done if Emily hadn’t confessed? Set me up, most likely. Something else burns at me. Rage. All my life, people have let me down.

  I trusted Rachel. For a moment, I goddamn trusted her.

  All I can think is I learned how not to feel. How to close myself off, to get through it all. Then I tried… With Blake, I opened my heart. But it’s too painful. It’s too freakin’ painful.

  I want to go back to how I was. Back to not feelin’.

  The door handle turns, and in comes Rachel. Even if I hadn’t just found what I found, her expression would put me on edge. She looks real peculiar. Like she is not herself. At all.

  “Hey!” My mouth is dry, but I think it comes out okay.

  That’s when I remember. I didn’t put the jars back right.

  Fuck.

  Without a word, Rachel turns toward the little kitchen.

  “Did you open the pantry?” she asks in this weird, dull voice.

  I stand up quicker than I mean to. The skinny door is ajar, how I left it, keepin’ the finger jar just out of sight. All Rachel needs to do is take another step into the kitchen and she’ll see it.

  “About that. I got some bad news,” I say quickly. Rachel spins around, pin-eyed and agitated-looking. It’s as much as I can do not to take a step back. If she was anyone else, I’d know they’d just shot up somethin’ pretty strong. Only Rachel doesn’t do drugs. So what in the world has happened to her?

  “Um. I think the police busted up your storehouse,” I say. “I don’t know how much is salvageable.”

  I swallow. Rachel waits a long moment. Her eyes glide to the pantry. Then she turns away and steps back toward the front door.

  “I’ll go take a look,” she says in the same dead tone, and just like that, she walks straight out the front door again.

  She doesn’t close it behind her, and I watch as Rachel walks out toward the big store.

  What the fuck do I do now?

  A thought grabs at me like an instinct.

  Hide.

  Hide and hope to God Rachel will think I’ve gone out for a walk or somethin’. Maybe she’ll leave long enough for me to get to the car.

  I put a rough plan together in my head. Hide. Run. Drive.

  Then I remember. The Chevy has a gun. A hunting rifle.

  Chapter Ninety-Eight

  Emily, Sister-Wife

  I go down to the river where Blake used to fish. The water is fast-flowing here, which I guess is why he picked it, since in my opinion, it’s not very pretty. The big, brown rock face opposite oozes water in slimy rivulets, like it’s crying black tears. And the juniper tree he sat under is all twisted and parched. I stop for a moment, looking at that tree.

  Nothing hanging from it now. Either desert animals or the police had tidied away all the blood splatters. Maybe the branch he was fixed to is bowed lower, but it’s hard to tell.

  I turn to the water, which swirls past in a lot of little curls and S shapes.

  There’s a part of the rocky water’s edge a few feet down where the stones get flatter, and a gnarled-up shrubby thing is growing out of the bank. I squat down, reach down, pulling my sleeve over my hand. I grope around the underwater bank.

  The bush here hangs low, disguising a whole tangle of roots that fix into the bank like netting. Blake showed me that once. Nature’s own hidey-holes. Apparently, muskrats use them for nests.

  It takes me a good few minutes, pushing deep into the hard roots. For a moment, I think what I’m looking for has been swept free. Then I catch hold of something hard and smooth.

  Pushed into the roots of the shrub is a little gardening ax. Carefully, I work it free, keeping my sleeve down so as not to leave fingerprints.

  Police look for evidence in good hiding places, not dumb ones.

  I saw this trick on an episode of Cagney & Lacey where the murder weapon went missing. People dredge the bottoms of rivers and such if they suspect something has been tossed downstream, but I’m fairly certain they don’t comb the banks. And like Cagney said, what kind of dumb-ass would hide a murder weapon right by the victim?

  I can’t help but feel a little pleased with myself for outsmarting all of them.r />
  I look at the sharp edge. The blood has washed away. I don’t know if that means there’ll be no DNA.

  I think back to my last conversation with Carlson.

  “If Aunt Meg just vanished, and she really did put babies to sleep,” I asked him, “does that mean she escaped justice?”

  “Probably. Real life, kid. Not like on TV.”

  I blew out through my nose. “But I mean, what she did was worse than the Prophet, right? And he’s in jail for life.”

  “We’d better hope there really is a God and she gets what’s comin’ to her,” Carlson said. “But maybe she already had. From what the records say, Margaret Ambrosine was originally married to the Prophet’s eighty-year-old father. At the tender age of fifteen.” He glanced at me. “When the old man died, little Margaret got reassigned to his son, who then became the Prophet. From what we can see, Aunt Meg was a mother herself, if you can believe it. Just the one child, though. Nothing to indicate why that was; we can only speculate.”

  “I don’t think birthing a child,” I told him, “automatically makes you a mother. I mean, not everyone is wired that way.”

  Carlson was looking at my hands. I realized I had twisted up the belt on my prison jumpsuit.

  “No,” he said. “Guess not.”

  “It’s like what the therapist lady said to me,” I told Carlson. “Some mothers believe so hard, their children become objects to them. Something to take along to the afterlife. Like those old pharaohs who got buried with their slaves.”

  I’m thinking this over, the ax still in my hand. That’s when I have it. An honest-to-God real-life revelation. I’ve been wanting to have one ever since I was a little girl, and here it is. I start to stand up, eyes wide, mouth open. I know who killed Blake.

  That’s when I feel a solid shove from behind. I tumble head over heels, right into the river.