Gray Widow Trilogy 1: Gray Widow's Walk

by Dan Jolley

  As the car with Mrs. Troland in it pulled away, a Channel 5 news van turned the corner and bore down on them. Feygen scowled and made a small growling sound. Vicki Chamberlain would be in that van, and a bigger pain in the ass he’d never encountered. He turned and started toward the house, away from her and her microphone and her questions, when a thought popped into his head. He glanced around until he saw Cardi standing by the side of the house.

  Cardi was twenty-three, baby-faced, a decent rookie so far, and a good target for somebody like Chamberlain. Feygen ambled over near the young officer, turned partly away from him, pulled out his phone and leaned against the house.

  “No, listen, that’s what I’m saying,” he said softly into the dead phone. He figured Cardi could hear him if he strained at it. “I got it from higher up... No, seriously, we got this tip from the Gray Widow.”

  He heard a small intake of breath from over his shoulder, and smiled a little, out of Cardi’s sight. “That’s right. She called somebody, brass I guess, and gave ’em this location. Told ’em about the little girl. ...‘Oh shit’ is right, man. ...Okay, thanks.”

  Feygen pocketed the phone again, leaned his head back against the wall, and turned to look at Cardi as if just noticing the young officer’s presence.

  “Hey, Cardi,” he said, and motioned him over. “Listen, we got these reporters out there. Head out to the front, keep ’em out of the house, all right?”

  “Ah, yeah, yeah sure,” Cardi said, the impact of Feygen’s one-sided phone conversation practically stamped on his face.

  “Good, thanks.” Feygen put a hand between Cardi’s shoulder blades, gave him a gentle shove to send him on his way, and ducked inside the house.

  Through the window in the front door he saw Vicki Chamberlain and a cameraman coming up the sidewalk. Chamberlain called out to Officer Cardi, who turned around and froze like a deer on the road. Vicki Chamberlain powered up her stadium-lights smile—which Feygen knew camouflaged a personality like a shark with a chain saw—and started asking Cardi questions.

  Feygen chuckled and moved farther into the house.

  * * *

  At 11:15 that morning, Janey Sinclair rolled leisurely down the Trolands’ street in her modest little Honda Civic, the driver’s side window down and Bruce Springsteen on the stereo. She saw the squad cars clustered around the Troland house, piercing blue lights aglitter. Neighbors congregated to crane their necks and ask questions of uniformed officers. A news van sat at the curb.

  Allowing herself her first totally unreserved, unselfconscious smile in two years, Janey rolled up the window and sang along with the Boss.

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  Janey walked into the police precinct on Spring Street that afternoon, asked a few questions, and was directed to Detective Chester Kraitz. The policeman waved Janey to a battered gray metal desk and said, “Have a seat while I get the right papers.” Janey took the nicked and scarred wooden chair in front of the desk and sat, glancing around. Her chest and side hurt unmercifully, and deep breaths hurt even worse. She let her eyes unfocus briefly.

  Z, Y, X, W...

  Soon her breathing eased.

  Kraitz was a stocky, barrel-chested man in his thirties, slightly below average height, with very closely cropped red hair, a neatly trimmed mustache, and brown eyes that could punch holes through concrete. His demeanor was cordial enough, but he made Janey uneasy.

  “So you’re here to give your statement about that mugging in Hammerfield Park last night, right?”

  Janey nodded. “Yeah.”

  “And it took you till now to come in? Talk to us?” Kraitz glanced at his watch. “Fifteen hours later?”

  Janey sat with wide eyes for a few seconds, and decided to act really, really stupid.

  “Well, uh...I had to, like, get my car, y’know?” She tried to let her eyes glaze over. That part wasn’t hard. God, I’m tired. “I didn’t wanna just, like, leave it out there, y’know?”

  Kraitz stared at her. Janey said, “Hey, I’m sorry, I didn’t realize it was so important, I woulda come in already. Anyway, it was, like, really freaky out there.”

  The detective’s pen hovered over a statement form. “Freaky? How?”

  “Well, I mean, that poor girl, y’know? With all the blood and stuff. And I was thinking, holy shit, that coulda been me, y’know? What if he’d cut me up like that?”

  Janey knew the girl hadn’t been “cut up.”

  Detective Kraitz sat unmoving for some time. Janey began to think the man would spring across the desk and cuff her.

  “Okay,” Kraitz finally said. “So did you get a good look at this guy? At his face? Your boyfriend didn’t. He was asking about you, by the way.”

  An unexpected jolt throbbed through her side, and the effort required not to gasp made her eyes unfocus again.

  “Yeah, I totally got a good look at him.”

  Janey had tried to decide, the whole way to the police station, whether or not to be truthful in describing the young man who’d called himself Simon. She’d finally settled on a partial truth, since she couldn’t do much good herself if she were locked up in a padded room somewhere.

  Not that a padded room could hold her.

  “He’s a young guy. Pale, dark hair, thin. Sort of pretty, y’know? He had on black clothes, I couldn’t tell exactly what. Jeans, maybe.”

  Kraitz said, “That’s a pretty detailed description of somebody running away from you in the dark.”

  Janey shrugged, and gave Kraitz her absolute best ditzy grin.

  “I was trying to take a photo. Y’know, like, with my phone. Couldn’t get a shot, though.”

  “Did he say anything?”

  “Nope. Not a word.”

  Kraitz handed Janey a sheet of paper with departmental letterhead on it.

  At the top were the words, “VICTIM/WITNESS STATEMENT.”

  “Just write everything down there,” Kraitz said. “Exactly as you told me. And fill out the stuff at the top.”

  Surprised, Janey looked at the piece of paper uncertainly. She’d expected to come in, say what she had to say, and leave. Now she had to spend more time there, and—her eyes widened—one of the blanks was, “Highest level of education completed.”

  Completely aside from her agitation at last night’s events and anxiety about being in the police station, she felt a little pang of shame.

  Janey was twenty-seven, and officially had nothing more than an eleventh-grade education. She wasn’t destitute, she had no health problems. Thanks to the ACA, she even had insurance now that didn’t cost the proverbial arm and leg. There was no real reason she couldn’t have gone back and at least gotten her GED. She just hadn’t. Normally she didn’t think about it much, since her life was progressing, after a fashion. But now, with it staring her in the face, she couldn’t help but feel like sort of a loser.

  Her face held carefully neutral, she checked the box beside “High school,” and felt a little slimy. She quickly wrote down her abbreviated version of what had happened in the park.

  It took about fifteen minutes. As Janey stood to leave she felt Kraitz’s eyes on her back, drilling two little brown holes, and kept feeling them until she got outside.

  On the way to the car she thought, Well, that could have been worse, I guess, all things considered.

  * * *

  Janey hadn’t noticed Zach Feygen, sitting mostly hidden behind a partition, watching her. A few moments after Janey left, Feygen stood and wandered over to Kraitz, who glanced up at him and leaned back in his chair.

  “Zach,” Kraitz said, friendly. “What’s up? How’s your woman? Still lookin’ good?”

  “Better than ever,” Feygen replied. “Hey, who was that girl you were just talking to?”

  * * *

  Dark dreams played out on the screen behind Simon’s closed ey
elids, filled with heavy, crushing weight, and...something else. A scent...? What was that? Something heavy. Musky.

  He tried to stay asleep, but Ruby wouldn’t leave him alone. Her whining grated on him, filled his head. He tried to reach out a hand to her, to pet her, maybe scratch behind her ears or thump her on the ribs. But he couldn’t reach her, and when he tried harder his fingers started to feel strange.

  A beautiful Alaskan Husky, Ruby belonged to Paul Burney, Simon’s next-door neighbor. He and Paul were...what? Sixteen? No. Paul was sixteen; Simon was older by a year. Both his and Paul’s houses had huge, perfect lawns, and a thin line of trees separated them. Paul and Ruby ran around their yard almost every day, played catch with Frisbees or wrestled on the ground. So Simon walked over one day, asked if he could play, too.

  He’d never had a dog.

  Ruby was so good, so sweet. Such a smart dog. Simon saw the intelligence in her eyes. She really looked back at him when he looked at her.

  Eventually Paul began to let Simon take Ruby on walks by himself, if Paul had other places to be. Simon was happy to do it.

  She was fun just to pet, with her thick fur and fuzzy ears and beautiful blue eyes. Whenever Simon stroked her neck Ruby pointed her nose straight up in the air, offered her throat for scratching, where the fur was dense and deep.

  Ruby was such a good dog. She never barked for no reason, was always warm and friendly. Simon missed her. He began to cry, softly, as he reached out for her, tried to stroke her head, scratch her ears. But his fingers weren’t right, and Ruby’s whining wouldn’t stop...

  ...and he realized he was the one whining.

  Simon tried to open his eyes, but could only pry the lids apart the tiniest bit. He lay on a bed, indoors somewhere, in a place with white walls. He thought he saw two people nearby. They were talking.

  Two people, a man and a woman, he could tell by the sounds of their voices, but he couldn’t make out what they said. Only one word really got through: it was “nicely,” maybe with one or two words attached to it. “Coming along nicely”? He couldn’t quite understand it. He tried to move, and that caused him to feel his shoulder, and the gouging pain blacked him out again.

  * * *

  Dusk, and Simon’s eyes opened again, clear and calm.

  The memories hung there, and he walked through them: the golden-haired girl—he winced—the fall down the hill, the headlights. Frowning, he very carefully tried to move his shoulder, just an inch, just lift it off the bed. It worked. A little stiff, but no real pain. His eyes and throat felt cleansed, and he drew in a few deep breaths. Pleased, he sat up.

  He was in a small bedroom in a house, on a twin bed. Dark brown wood paneling covered the walls. A small night table stood beside the bed with a reading lamp on it. Huge, overlapping squares of heavy gray plastic covered what looked like a hardwood floor. The closet, a wide type with two folding doors, stood open and perfectly empty, except for a hanger on which his clothes were draped. They looked to have been recently washed.

  Guest bedroom, he thought.

  He lifted the sheets and saw that he was wearing a pair of boxer shorts he didn’t recognize. That started to freak him out, but before he could make any clear decisions the bedroom door opened and a woman walked in. She flipped on the overhead light and Simon flinched away from it for a second.

  Older than he was, late twenties or so, she wore a burgundy silk jacket with a matching skirt and a white ruffled blouse. He’d thought for a moment she’d be bringing him a tray of food. That’s what he always saw in the movies, when the main character woke up in some strange place, the first person he saw was always some attractive female with a tray of food. This woman was attractive, all right—more so the longer he looked at her—but empty-handed. She stood in the doorway and watched him with a blatantly speculative expression.

  Attractive, yes... Simon felt himself responding, and almost immediately the other urge flared up right behind it. He remembered vividly the girl in the apartment, how much he’d wanted her, how he’d been so rudely denied, and the full need of it settled onto him.

  He felt his eyes change. The woman saw it, and her own eyes narrowed, but she didn’t move from the door. She crossed her arms just below her ample bosom and leaned against the doorframe, only watching him. That made Simon angry. He wasn’t sure why, but it did. He didn’t even try to fight it this time. He threw the sheets off him with already lengthening fingers and rolled forward, up onto his knees. His jaw dropped, distended, and the teeth came in, and he brought one leg up, ready to lunge off the bed toward the woman, and she said, “I think you need to calm down and get back in bed.”

  Simon stopped in mid-motion. His fingers rapidly returned to normal.

  Calm down and get back in bed. Okay. That sounded reasonable. He nodded, his jaw re-formed and clicked shut, and he gathered up the sheet.

  The woman pushed off of the doorframe and came into the room as he settled down onto the mattress with the covers around his chin.

  “Now you just stay right there, like that, and listen while I talk to you.”

  Simon nodded, and stared at her. She was maybe a little heavy, a little more rounded than he liked, but the closer she got to him the more he found himself straining at the boxer shorts. He was acutely embarrassed, and he wanted to lift one leg, at least, to camouflage himself. But she’d told him to stay right there, like that, and that sounded pretty good, so he figured he’d go along with that. Even when she sat down on the edge of the bed.

  But...but the need was on him bad. His fingers began to throb as the bones softened, re-formed, softened again, echoing his pulse. He saw the white pinpoints of his eyes reflected clearly in hers, and his jawline rippled. But she’d told him to stay, to listen. So he did, and it made him want to howl.

  The woman leaned back, away from him, her expression speculative. “My name is Brenda, and I have a lot that I need to tell you.” She stood up from the bed, went back to the door and pushed it all the way open. In the hallway outside the bedroom stood a small, dull-looking man in dark slacks, a white shirt, and a tie. He held a slim teenage girl by the arm, in such a way that he seemed to be keeping her upright as much as she was herself. The girl looked frightened, but made no move to break the man’s grip. Drugged, Simon thought. That girl is sedated. And pretty...

  “But I know you must be absolutely starving,” Brenda said. “I’ll come back and speak with you when you’re better able to concentrate.” She nodded at the small man, who shoved the girl into Simon’s room. Brenda walked out and pulled the door shut behind her. Simon heard several locks engage.

  He and the girl stared at each other for about ten seconds before Simon felt a release, a catch thrown open inside his head, and thought his blood would boil out of his veins.

  He bore the girl down to the floor in a tangle of white squirming coils. She never made a sound.

  * * *

  Later. How much later...? Simon didn’t know. Couldn’t tell. His toes still quivered.

  For the first time, the sheets of gray plastic covering the hardwood floor of the bedroom actually registered on him. That was good planning. Both he and the girl were soaked, dripped red everywhere they moved.

  Well, everywhere he moved.

  Simon lay on his back beside the bed. When he rolled up onto his side, the plastic stuck to his skin, and he had to peel it off. The girl’s body lay a few feet away, curled and shrunken and looking a bit like a cast-off insect shell.

  He closed his eyes. He knew from experience that as soon as the buzz wore off he’d feel it, all the remorse and guilt and pain. It was a unique time for him, this blood-fueled high, when he could survey his actions and their consequences intellectually, distanced from every emotion but pleasure. He tried to savor it.

  The door opened. Brenda, just as striking as before, said, “Get up and take off your shorts.”

  Si
mon scrambled to his feet, happy to oblige. Off with the shorts, sure, no problem with that. He left them on the plastic, and she said, “Now follow me.” Well, that wasn’t a problem either.

  She pointed him toward the bathroom and told him to wash off all the blood. Still no problem, quite a reasonable request, glad to do it. The shower felt pretty good, anyway, though he really hated to see the blood disappear down the drain. He liked it when it dried on him, and cracked a little when he moved. Anyway. He tried to think of a song to sing while he bathed, but nothing good came to mind, so he hummed “Row Row Row Your Boat.”

  When he finished and stepped out of the shower stall, he found clean, fluffy towels and a fresh change of clothes waiting for him. Just plain white socks and tighty-whiteys, and dark blue jeans and a solid green T-shirt, looked like they came from K-Mart. But it beat walking around naked, so he got dressed.

  Brenda waited for him in the hall. He started to say something, but the air filled up with that scent, the scent he’d smelled before, and she stepped forward and put her arms around his neck and kissed him, and oh, oh wow, even though she didn’t give him any tongue, damn but that was the best kiss he’d ever had, and everything got sort of white and weird and his head went strange.

  Next thing he knew he stood in the bedroom again. All the plastic and the bloody underwear and the girl were gone. Brenda stood next to him and told him to sit down on the bed, so he did, and that felt better. She pulled a chair across from another room—Simon thought he saw a kid in that room for a second, but he wasn’t sure, maybe the kid wasn’t real, ’cause he was really pale and maybe he was a ghost—and she sat down in the chair and looked at him.

  “All right,” she said. “This is what we’re going to do. I’m going to ask you some questions, and you’re going to answer them truthfully. Okay?”