Spider's Web

by Mike Omer

  Mitchell was getting on Tanessa’s nerves. He kept asking her if she was sure she wanted to do this. He mentioned their parents a couple of times. He talked about how dangerous it was.

  Did they really need Mitchell for this? she asked Zoe.

  It turned out they didn’t. Mitchell was politely told to fuck off.

  Meanwhile, Captain Bailey and the rest of his detectives planned Tanessa’s cover. Agent Mancuso from the FBI drove over to consult and help. She stressed that there were two important things to pay attention to. One, the killer should be oblivious to the fact that this was a trap. He should see no police presence anywhere. Two, they had to make sure the killer would attack Tanessa from close range. If he chose to shoot her with a sniper rifle, for example, the trap would be left empty, and the bait might end up dead. No. They needed him close enough that the police escort and Tanessa could catch him, while preferably Tanessa should stay alive.

  Mitchell, who had walked in on the discussion, was getting very loud. He suggested things like bulletproof vests, a detail of over a dozen people watching Tanessa’s every move, and an apartment that had its windows boarded up. Agent Mancuso asked who this guy was. Jacob explained that this was Detective Mitchell Lonnie, who by happy coincidence was the bait’s brother.

  He was politely told to fuck off a second time.

  It took most of the day, but they finally located a small apartment within two hundred feet of a flower shop. She would live in the apartment, and work in the flower shop. This way, they kept her time in the open to bare minimum. The flower shop was on Clayton Road, which was one of the busiest streets in Glenmore Park. There was always another person on shift, sometimes two. It was highly unlikely the killer would strike there. He’d have to strike her at home, or on the route between the flower shop and the apartment.

  The killer was clearly stalking his targets, learning their routine. They came up with a simple routine for him to follow: Tanessa would leave “home” at eight and go to the flower shop. She would return home at five thirty, and open the bedroom window in the apartment to “let some air in.” Then she’d close the window around eleven, and go to sleep.

  There was a drainpipe near the bedroom window. They hoped the killer would try to get into her apartment that way. There was one cop in the apartment, and one cop across the road watching the drainpipe and the window. While she walked to the flower shop, they had someone watching her every step, armed with a sniper rifle. There was a camera aimed at the front door, another one on her window, and two cameras inside the apartment, all their feeds sent directly to dispatch.

  Tanessa felt it was too much. The killer would send her a message, after all. They would know beforehand that he was coming for her. Zoe didn’t agree. She pointed out that the time between the message and the murders might get shorter, just like the time between murders was becoming shorter. The killer seemed to be getting impatient. It was best to be prepared.

  Tanessa’s phone was tapped; every message she received appeared directly on a monitor in the dispatch center. Dispatchers were instructed to pay attention to that monitor. Nobody wanted the message to go unnoticed when the time came.

  Bernard and Hannah were tasked with talking to all the women on Atticus’s list of models and wannabe models, yet again, to make sure none of them had registered on the killer’s site. As it turned out, three of them had.

  Twelve hours later the three women all posted on Facebook, Instagram and Twitter that they were going away for a short while. One of them was taking a surprise vacation. One was visiting a sick relative. The third was going on a business trip.

  The three women were relocated to a safe, unknown location, escorted by heavily-armed bodyguards.

  The police could only hope there weren’t any women who had registered on the site and weren’t on Atticus’s list.

  Tanessa moved into her new apartment that evening, then her details were added to the killer’s website.

  The trap was set. It was time to see if the predator took the bait.

  Chapter Eighteen

  He kept glancing at his laptop, trying to postpone the moment. Anticipation. Was there anything better? And now the entire city brimmed with it. They all wondered when and where he would strike. Who would he choose this time? Young women all over Glenmore Park slept uneasily, wondering if they were next. Others thought of their sisters, daughters, girlfriends, wives, neighbors. Who would it be? It was not exactly anticipation they were experiencing, of course. It was dread.

  But every coin had two sides. His anticipation was so much stronger because of their dread. And finally, finally! It was almost like the first time: him postponing the moment, half because he wasn’t sure he could go through with it, half because the anticipation drove him into a frenzy of excitement he’d never felt before. Her dread as she realized what was about to happen, the fear in her eyes, exciting him even further. He’d been chasing that moment ever since.

  The first time was special. And when you were young, everything was more exciting. Now, he had to make an entire city dread him to feel the same.

  But it was wonderful.

  Was it time to select his next victim? Surely he could postpone it only a bit longer?

  Anticip…

  He stood up, prepared a cup of coffee. Not too much sugar; he was slowly cutting back. When he’d been young, he would drink coffee with two spoons of sugar. Two! Now he was down to half. He sipped slowly, imagining the caffeine mixing in his blood, increasing his excitement even further. Finally, he finished the cup, washed it in the sink, dried it carefully with a towel.

  …ation.

  He gave in, sat at the laptop, and turned it on.

  He had fourteen to choose from. Someone new—good. He’d check her out later. After all, he pretty much knew who it was going to be. He had followed her for a while already. She went to the gym every Thursday, taking a shortcut through that alley. Who wouldn’t? If she went all the way around, it would take her ten minutes more. So what if the alley was dark, and narrow, and long, with many places for someone to hide. Ten whole minutes! Wasn’t it worth it? He smiled as he opened her details. She was gorgeous. He browsed to her Instagram profile, to look at her pictures yet again.

  The smile died away.

  She was going to visit a sick relative. She didn’t know when she would be back. His fist crashed inches from the laptop. Damn it! What about routine? Didn’t she care about her routine?

  How could he plan anything if people broke their routine? Half the anticipation revolved around the planning. He gritted his teeth. Fine. He would choose someone else.

  He skimmed through the profiles. Some didn’t live in the city, although his ad was targeted at residents of Glenmore Park. Some didn’t feel right, either too old or not pretty enough. They had to be pretty, like she was. One was too young. He opened the details of the new girl.

  Well, now.

  This one. She was something else. Looked a bit too old. He glanced at her age. Twenty-one. Huh. Well, young women kept trying to look older and more sophisticated than they were. He looked at her for a while. Those lips… that smile… perfect color, tender but somehow sexy as well. Just like her smile. He looked for her Instagram profile, opened it. Scrolled through it a bit.

  In the small apartment, the killer smiled. He’d found his new target.

  “Can you believe that woman?” Mitchell was clearly enraged, his voice too loud in Tanessa’s ear. She turned the phone’s volume down a bit and took a sip from her coffee mug. She’d drunk a lot of coffee in the past forty-eight hours. After more than two months on the force, her body was completely accustomed to night shift. Suddenly flipping to day shift was a lot harder than she’d thought it would be.

  “Mitchell, what are you so mad about? She’s a journalist. That’s what they do. They report the news.”

  “She says we were at the wrong house! She makes us sound like incompetents!”

  “Well… we were at the wrong house,” Tanessa
pointed out, turning the volume down a bit more. Her brother was giving her a headache.

  “Yes! Because the killer made a mistake! The killer is incompetent, not us!”

  “Well, that doesn’t sound like a very good news story. Incompetent killer still on the loose sounds a lot less newsworthy than Incompetent police save the wrong girl,” Tanessa said. “Besides, she probably didn’t find out about the website, so she thinks that the killer misled us.”

  “She’s going to get us taken off this case,” Mitchell muttered.

  “I doubt it. She’s just one reporter.”

  “Well, I’m going to question her again. I want to know where she got the info.”

  “Fine, you do that. Meanwhile, I need to go and sell some flowers,” Tanessa said.

  “Yeah, okay. Take care.”

  She hung up, grabbed her purse, and took off. Despite herself, she felt her body tense as she left the apartment. She glanced over her shoulder constantly while she locked the door.

  As she walked to the flower shop, she had to force herself to avoid looking around, searching for him. Either he was watching her or he wasn’t. If she kept looking for him, he might realize this was a trap. She had to walk as if she had no cares in the world. Tralala, young Tanessa going for her shift at the flower shop, blatantly ignorant of the psycho killer who might be stalking her. It drove her insane.

  Her phone beeped, making her heart leap. She checked the display. It was just Richard, her other annoying brother, messaging to check up on her. She got her breathing under control and replied that she was fine but, if he didn’t mind, she’d rather he simply called instead of sending her a message.

  Messages were suddenly a foreboding thing. A message could potentially contain an image of the murder weapon which would be used to kill her.

  She reached the flower shop, Hummingbird Blossoms, and walked inside. George, the owner, welcomed her with a smile. She smiled back and glanced around the shop. She couldn’t help it. They were working under the assumption that the killer wouldn’t strike in the flower shop.

  What if the killer wasn’t informed?

  It was a small shop. The front room had a tall wooden counter with a cash register, and other than that there were only flowers. Thousands of flowers. The bursts of bright colors and the strong, sweet smells that intermingled in the air played havoc with Tanessa’s senses, which were used to darkness, dim colors, and the scent of the patrol car’s interior. She was constantly in a state of sensory overload, breathing short breaths to avoid inhaling too much, or staring at the bare floor to rest her eyes. This was a problem in her cover that they hadn’t anticipated, and it was now too late to change it. Once again, she could only hope the killer wouldn’t strike while she was in the shop. Hopefully in a few days she would get used to it.

  “Help me get the front up?” George asked.

  “Sure,” Tanessa said.

  Each morning, when George opened the shop, he’d organize a colorful display of flowers on the sidewalk. He’d place them in large black buckets on a small table, and around the table on the ground. The result was a small mound of colors, easily the most eye-catching thing on the entire street. As Tanessa and George carried the buckets of flowers outside, she noticed him glancing at her several times, frowning.

  She looked at him curiously. He was fifty-ish, his hair white, his skin a pale pink, his eyes beaming happily around. If Santa Claus had had a cousin, he’d have looked like George. She wasn’t sure how much he knew, but he wasn’t entirely ignorant. The flower shop hadn’t really been looking for extra hands, and George somehow knew Captain Bailey. Had Captain Bailey told him she was a cop? Did he know she was bait?

  They finished organizing the display and walked back inside. She was sweeping the floor when the door was flung open. Without her even realizing it, her hand went to her side, where she typically kept her Glock while on duty. But there was no gun there. Her heart pounded as a young man entered the store, walked over, and asked what kind of flowers were best to say I’m sorry.

  The anticipation and fear were driving her out of her mind. She wished the killer would strike already.

  All day, Pauline had been dreading the moment the apartment door would open. She’d called in sick that morning, knowing she was in no shape to work. When the door finally opened, she was nearly relieved. The waiting game was over.

  Mitchell walked inside, his face deep in thought, his forehead in the constant frown that had been her companion for the past month. It had been even worse for the past week, ever since his sister started acting as bait for the serial killer. He was constantly tense, snapping at her for no good reason, occasionally staring into nothing, ignoring her completely.

  “Hey,” he said distractedly, as he saw her standing in their living room. “Sorry I’m so late.”

  He was, in fact, comparatively early. It was only half past nine in the evening. He usually came home after midnight these days, crawling into bed beside her while she was already asleep.

  He appeared to notice her face. Her red eyes, swollen from endless crying.

  “What’s wrong?” he asked, worry and care in his voice, and his concern nearly shattered her to bits. He walked forward to hold her, and she took a small step back, raising her hands. He stopped, puzzled.

  “I’m leaving,” she said. “I’m sorry.”

  She could see the incomprehension on his face, his brain trying to parse the information in a way that would not mean what it actually meant. Perhaps she was quitting work. Or perhaps she was leaving for a short trip to Paris, would be back within a week.

  “I don’t think we should be together,” she added, to dispel the confusion. Bring in the hurt. “We’re too different, Mitchell. It won’t work.”

  “But it is working,” he said.

  “No,” she said. “It isn’t. Not for me.”

  He seemed completely stunned and, not for the first time, she wondered how someone who tracked criminals for his living, deciphering the smallest clues, could be so blatantly blind.

  “I don’t understand,” he said. “We should talk about this.”

  She shook her head, her throat clenched tight, the words refusing to come out. It was too late to talk. Yes, she should have talked, a month ago, or three weeks ago, when she had realized that she wasn’t happy anymore, that she hadn’t really been happy for a long time. But he was never there; he was always at work, chasing the serial killer, and she’d been left alone with her thoughts. And when they did talk lately… it was always about the case. Every conversation they had, tainted by grisly murders, panty-sniffing perverts, hookers, drug dealers, domestic abuse. She had been innocent once, had truly believed that people had beauty within them. But innocence and ignorance apparently went hand in hand, and now she felt and knew different.

  “Pauline,” he said. “I love you. I want to make this work.”

  His eyes were so sad and hurt. Not the sadness everyone thought they saw in him, the sadness he claimed was a product of eyebrow maintenance. Real sadness. His entire face crumpled in true loss. And she nearly relented, nearly said okay, maybe they should go to couples therapy, try to spend more time together.

  But it was too late, wasn’t it? There was a third entity hovering above this conversation. Someone else.

  She had met Paul at work. He came for a standard check, his teeth perfect and white. He began flirting with her, and asked her name. When she’d told him, he burst out laughing, said there was no point in talking further. They couldn’t possibly hook up. A couple named Paul and Pauline should not, under any circumstances, be a thing. She loved the way he laughed, the way he joked about everything, taking nothing too seriously. She had never thought of herself as someone who could be unfaithful, but with Paul it became clear that it was about to happen despite her self-perception. And she’d made a decision.

  “It won’t work,” she told Mitchell, a tear trickling down her cheek. It was a wonder there were any of those left. She’d been crying
the entire day, as she scrolled through their pictures on her laptop, as she packed, as she tried to write half a dozen letters that would explain how she felt, crumpling up the paper each time.

  His face changed, the ever-sorrowful eyes narrowing angrily, his jaw clenching hard.

  “Fine,” he said. “Fuck off, then.”

  And she did.

  Chapter Nineteen

  The hot shower after a workout was probably Janice Hewitt’s favorite time of the day. The sensation of the powerful torrent of steaming water on her exhausted muscles easily surpassed any other earthly joy. This was why she typically showered for twenty minutes, and sometimes—when the day was really tough—even half an hour.

  But every shower had to end eventually. She sadly turned off the water and stepped out, wrapping herself with a towel. She walked to the bedroom and approached the bed, where she had prepared a clean set of clothes beforehand. On the nightstand, her phone was blinking; she picked it up and glanced at it, her hand already reaching out to pick up her underwear.

  Her hand froze in mid-air.

  There was a message from an unknown number waiting for her. It was an image of a large chainsaw placed on a small table. Underneath, three words. See you soon.

  She glanced around her, her heart beating wildly. The bedroom door was ajar, and through it she could see into the corridor. She moved aside, pressing her back to the wall so as to see the entirety of the corridor. There was no movement. She looked at the image again, making sure she had seen correctly, then dialed 911.

  The call didn’t go through. She tried again, achieving the same result. Something was wrong with her phone.