Spiders in a Dark Web
By Emily Senecal
Contents
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Epilogue: Three Months Later
Copyright page
Chapter 1
If I’d known it was going to be the last day of life as I knew it, I would have done a few things differently. Woken up early instead of late, giving myself time to get ready instead of rushing around my apartment, hairbrush in hand, throwing on whatever clean clothes I could find. Ordered that chocolate croissant when I picked up my daily coffee. Spent less time sulking in my cubicle and chatted with the few coworkers I didn’t dislike. Eaten lunch anywhere other than at my desk.
I would have packed the essentials. Been ready when Marianne called.
But that’s all moot at this point. I didn’t order the croissant, and I wasn’t ready. Her call, the ringing of my phone that afternoon and my eager reach to answer, set off an explosion in my life. Sent it on a wildly new trajectory, without any of the comforting sign posts and landmarks that had led me to where I was when it all started.
I can’t regret what happened. Those chaotic weeks threw me in a direction, and landed me in a situation, that would have been unimaginable before. Now I can’t imagine life any other way.
It did come with a cost, as most gifts will; a cost apart from disorientation, discomfort and distress. There are things, now, I wish I could forget. Could Lysol wipe out of my memories. Because now that it’s over, I don’t want to know what I know. I don’t want to carry it around like a ticking bomb, a grenade with the pin pulled out, always conscious that it could go off and destroy everything I care about.
It might be powerful, this knowledge. I’d still rather not have it.
I couldn’t ever regret where I ended up, or consider going back to the way things were. Stumbling through days and weeks and months of low-grade discontent in a job I didn’t want, a world that didn’t fit, wanting what I didn’t have. Not even knowing what I really wanted—until it had tumbled into my hands.
Life was simpler, and far less dangerous. But I wouldn’t go back.
■ ■ ■
I slowly turned onto the narrow, dusty lane, deeply rutted with dried puddles, hedged in by thickly growing grass, shrubs and the occasional late-blooming spring wildflower, the wheels of my car thumping unhappily on the unpaved road. In the distance I could see a small grove of towering oaks, strong and vital in spite of their size and age, with a rocky hillside rising immediately behind. This was my destination, the place I’d be indefinitely calling home. My windows were rolled down, allowing a cool, fresh breeze to blow across my face. It mingled with the dust stirred up by my tires.
After about a quarter of a mile of thumps and bumps, I arrived at a rickety wood and wire gate spanning the road, part of a fence of the same materials surrounding the small property. I got out and opened the rusty padlock with the key I’d been sent, pushing the gate open before driving through. Immediately the bright sunlight was severed by the dark, deep shadow of the oaks. Five mammoths who’d grown up or been planted together at the edge of the foothills, their branches stretching unbelievably far from their trunks, mingling peacefully together high above me.
I stopped the car in the center of the grove and got out. I stood in a small yard, as dusty as the road but tidy enough, housing a tiny whitewashed shed and several bulky stacks of unknown items covered by tattered tarps. My eyes drifted around, taking everything in, before I allowed myself to focus on the battered red camper.
I’d been here once as a pre-teen, visiting my father’s friend Joe—Uncle Joe, we always called him. I vaguely remembered a hot afternoon spent exploring the grove, scrambling up the rocky slope above, sitting in lawn chairs around a shabby plastic table and eating salami and cheese sandwiches my mother had made that morning before we left home. It wasn’t a long drive from San Mateo to Half Moon Bay, but I only remembered making it once. My father and Uncle Joe had laughed at jokes we didn’t understand and reminded each other of stories out of the past, but Marianne and I weren’t expected to listen. My mother drank a beer and smiled at them, maybe only half-listening. By the time the afternoon light began to wane, we were tired of exploring, and my parents drove us back home.
Now Uncle Joe was dead, and so were my mom and dad, and the camper and small property surrounding it were mine.
A perfect place to hide, Marianne had said, her voice tense. “They won’t trace you there, Lo. You’ll be safe.”
A shiver travelled up my spine in spite of the warm day, and I glanced uneasily behind me.
Nothing. Nothing in sight but rolling hills and sudden, tree-lined gulches and knee-high grasses and dusty roads, the mountains to the east, the ocean to the west. There weren’t many houses out here, a few farms; it was mostly preserved open space lightly crossed by power lines. Though the nearest farm’s property came right up to my fence, they used the fields as grazing land for cattle and the occasional herd of goats. I’d seen both on my drive in.
There’s nobody out there, I told myself, and tried hard to believe it. The anxious knot in my stomach thrummed softly at a low pitch of fear. Taking a deep breath to steady my nerves, clutching the set of unfamiliar keys in my sweaty hand, I closed the car door and went up to the camper.
It was an old one. I didn’t know much about campers, but I could tell from the bullet shape that it wasn’t made in the past few decades. For that reason it had a certain charm, in spite of the years of dirt and rain spatter on the outside, the scratched and faded red paint peeling off in places to reveal a dull metallic gleam beneath. There was no truck to pull it, but it didn’t have any wheels to roll on anyway. It was firmly—I hoped—mounted on some kind of wood frame. One metal rung acted as a step for the door.
I unlocked and opened this, finding the latch a little stiff but manageable, and peered into the dark interior. It was stuffy, but smelled clean—like Pine Sol, like it had been cleaned and then shut up for a long time. Uncle Joe died two years ago, my father last year. As far as I knew, nobody had lived there since Uncle Joe was moved to hospice. Reassured by the homely smell of cleanser, I climbed inside and reached over to pull open the nearest window shade, the roller kind. It snapped out of my hand and flapped loudly upward around its roll, startling my already taut nerves into a jump of fright, my heart beating wildly. Even as I reacted this way, I started laughing—of all the things to be afraid of just now, a window blind was probably the most absurd.
It felt good to laugh—to feel my face expressing something other than worry. I quickly moved around the small space, raising the blinds at all the windows on either side, before taking stock of my sanctuary.
With a sudden rush of nostalgia and familiarity, I remembered this place. I had one of those sharp, clear memories of standing right here as a twelve-year-old, looking around the interior with delighted envy and appreciation. In two intervening decades, I’d completely forgotten this, forgotten how much I’d adored Uncle Joe’s camper, forgotten how Marianne and I had played our teenage version of “house” in it—big city apartment—until my mother had driven us outside with reminders that this was Uncle Joe’s home, not a playhouse.
It was a darling place, perfectly planned and proportioned, every convenient cupboard an
d drawer and seat fitting together with no wasted space, yet there was a smooth and luxurious aesthetic created by the curved, light wood that covered every surface but the counter and seats. I walked around touching things, as I had as a child. I knew that the couch slid out with satisfying clicks to form a double bed, revealing a secret cubby behind the back where blankets, sheets and pillows hid during the day, with shelves that could be used for holding nighttime water cups, books and reading glasses.
The bathroom at one end had a stainless steel toilet under a tiny steel corner sink, a white fiberglass shower wedged beside them. A small kitchenette, the counters covered in gleaming white Formica, had a sink, a stove with two burners, and a perfectly-fitted—and relatively modern—steel and glass fridge tucked beneath a counter. Cupboards stood ready to serve as a pantry, while others were fitted with clothing rods and shelves for shoes. Drawers were lined with clean white rubber mats.
Every surface shone. It was beautifully clean, and absolutely empty, no sign of its previous owner remained. Not a paperback left on the bookshelves, not a spice in the small cabinet above the stove fitted with spice racks. I remembered it being clean when we’d played here, but also lived in, cozy, with shelves full of worn books and towels hanging in the bathroom. Whoever had cleared the camper out when Uncle Joe was ill, or after his death, they’d done a thorough job of it.
Unlike the dingy outside, the stainless steel, light wood and white interior of the trailer was as bright and contemporary as an urban studio. I didn’t know when Uncle Joe had bought it, or if he’d remodeled it himself, or how long he’d owned the land. The exterior, yard and all, gave an impression of decay, even poverty. Uncle Joe hadn’t been wealthy, but between social security and an annuity, ending with his death, he’d apparently had enough to live on comfortably. He’d owned a battered pickup, as well, which he’d donated to a local shelter before he died. It was easy to see that outward appearances hadn’t mattered to him, but comfort, and a beautiful home, had.
Though we’d only come as a family to visit Uncle Joe one time that I remembered, he’d been a regular visitor at our house, arriving once or twice a year with a net bag full of produce, a twelve-pack of Sierra Nevada beer and a delighted grin. Like the camper, his somewhat shabby, grizzled appearance, worn clothing and thickly bearded face disguised what was inside: a kind, intellectual soul. Marianne and I mostly went our own way when my parents entertained, but we liked Uncle Joe and enjoyed chatting with him over my mom’s barbequed chicken with mashed potatoes, his favorite meal. He never asked us questions about schoolwork or teased us about boys, but instead wanted to know what books we were reading, what places we wanted to travel to, what we liked to imagine.
He’d been a nice man. My dad had gone downhill quickly after his old friend’s death, only surviving him by seven months.
I tried the kitchen tap without any success, then realized that the power wasn’t on and that it was needed, according to the pages of instructions that came with the keys, to run the pump to the well, which was visible as a squat metal tank behind the camper. Fortunately the instructions included how to turn the pump on, along with the pilot for the hot water heater and circuit breakers.
One of the saving graces of this place, in my mind and especially now that I planned to stay here, was that it was connected to the natural gas and electrical grids. Local gas and power lines crossed the property near enough to connect, while the well and filtration system provided clean water. I even had cell service, though it wasn’t strong—only one bar showed on the cheap burner phone Marianne had handed me the last time I saw her.
I sat down at the booth-style table, feeling suddenly limp, exhausted and hopeless, the phone slack in my hand.
Where was Marianne? Was she all right? Why hadn’t she called?
It had been three days. Three long, tiring days of driving from city to city, sleeping in my car in the corner of parking lots because it wasn’t safe to register at hotels, buying gas and gas station food with the wad of cash she’d given me along with the phone, nervously checking the other customers, other cars, as if I knew who I was looking for.
As if I knew who might be coming for me.
It should only have taken about eight hours to drive here from LA, where I’d spent the last five years, but Marianne had insisted that I go north all the way to Sacramento first. I spent a few hours in a Wal-Mart parking lot in West Sacramento, panicked and cramped in my back seat, trying desperately to trust the world enough to close my eyes. The sun hadn’t come up when I was already heading back south down I-80 and west through Napa, then circling back down to San Francisco and the South Bay for another restless night at an office building near SFO. Finally, today, sliding quietly through Pacifica and winding down Cabrillo Highway, past the city of Half Moon Bay, to the turnoff leading to Uncle Joe’s.
I’d thought about stopping for supplies in Half Moon Bay, knowing I’d need much more than I had with me, but had wanted to make sure of my surroundings first. If the camper had turned out to be uninhabitable, it wouldn’t have made sense to roll up with a trunk full of groceries. Now, it seemed, I’d need much more than food—towels and sheets, all the basic pantry items down to salt and pepper, hand soap and toilet paper.
All I had with me were some of my clothes and a few personal items I’d tossed frantically into a bag while Marianne stood by the door demanding we go now. My apartment—ugly and airless and featureless as it was—had at least been stocked with all the essentials. Marianne had given me a few thousand dollars in cash, which would last awhile. But how long was a while?
How long would I have to do this?
What had Marianne gotten herself into? What had she gotten me into?
All at once, the weight of everything seemed to fall on me heavily, to the point that I could barely breathe. Tears spilled down my cheeks, but I wasn’t exactly crying. It was just too much. The fear—the strain—the confusion and questions and unknowns—the suddenness of my departure, leaving everything familiar all at once—my home, my job, my friends—disappearing from all of them, without any idea when I’d be able to go back.
If I’d be able to go back.
Which was silly. Ridiculous. Because how could I not go back? How could that be it? I’d have to give notice to end my lease, at least—cancel my utilities and Internet, pack up my belongings, sell or give away my IKEA furniture, change my contact address on all my accounts. I told my supervisor I had a family emergency back east—I don’t know why I said that—and that I’d be gone at least a week. I’d have to quit, at some point, if only to salvage my chances of ever being hired again.
Marianne had said not to worry about any of it. She’d take care of it, she said—in the very same voice she’d used when we were kids and we broke something accidentally, or a challenging task needed to be done. “I’ll take care of it, Lo. Don’t worry about it.”
But I always did worry. Worry that we’d get in trouble, worry that the spider would bite before it could be killed, that the knot would fail on the homemade swing.
And no matter how much I worried, I never let her fix or face or attempt whatever it was alone.
Those childish troubles and trials seemed so far off and empty now. Now, when Marianne herself was out there somewhere, vulnerable, unreachable, and involved in something dangerous.
Now, when I was desperately afraid for both our lives—and I didn’t even understand why.
■ ■ ■
The Safeway in Half Moon Bay was busy with late afternoon shoppers, but I found the crowds comforting. I wasn’t in a rush; what did I have to go back to? I took my time selecting what I needed, working off a mental list, circling back around the unfamiliar store until my cart was full. In the stationary aisle, I picked up a few paperbacks and magazines, knowing I’d go insane from boredom reading only the few ebooks already loaded on my tablet, until I was able to buy more. I’d already spent an hour in in a discount home goods store which I’d happened to pass on the way, s
tocking up on everything I’d need for the camper, so this would be my last stop before heading out of town again. Fortunately everything was on or visible from the main road, since I didn’t have my phone to help me search or navigate and my refuge came without the convenience of wifi.
I had to show my ID for the wine and vodka, but figured it was safe enough—not that I really knew what was safe and what wasn’t. Marianne had told me not to use any credit cards or register my name with any hotels or log into any of my accounts or contact anyone I knew. She’d turned off my phone and pocketed it, she’d given me strict instructions about how to get here and what to do if I saw someone acting suspicious—run. And call the one contact number on the burner phone for help—otherwise not to use the phone for any reason and not to pick up if it rang. The number, which I didn’t recognize when I looked at it later, was programmed under the initial “M.”
That was it. There hadn’t been time for anything else. Not even for explanations. If I hadn’t seen the fear in her eyes and known her so well, I wouldn’t have believed her when she said we were in danger—desperate danger—and I had to trust her and do what she said.
Of course I trusted her, and I did believe her and followed every instruction. But that didn’t mean I felt any less confused and conflicted about the whole thing.
If I’d been followed, if I was found, I didn’t see how I could have helped it. So I flashed my ID at the checker and met her eyes when she verified my identity and started ringing up the booze. I wasn’t a heavy drinker and didn’t have aspirations about becoming one, but the alcohol would help take the edge off; off the edge of both the fear and the loneliness. I also didn’t want to make frequent trips to town, if I could help it, so planned to make this supply of food and drink last a while.
It wasn’t security I felt, as I turned out of the parking lot and back on Highway 1, but it was something akin to that, a pale copy of it. Nothing terrible had happened, I was stocked up on supplies, I’d made it safely. The power and plumbing were working. I had hot water and a door to lock myself behind. Nobody knew I was here.
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