Spiders in a Dark Web

by Emily Senecal

  Somewhere in a county office, my name was on a paper stapled to the deed of the property, but the slow grinding of bureaucracy and the timing of their deaths had kept first Uncle Joe’s then my dad’s estate in probate. The attorneys had been working to untangle the various threads, the property itself held in limbo until everything could be finalized. A few months ago, the attorneys had sent me the keys, along with basic instructions and copies of some of the legal documents, which I’d barely skimmed before shoving them back into the envelope. They’d continued to pay the insurance, the property taxes, and the utilities, which were minimal, out of Uncle Joe’s small estate. He’d left just enough to cover the costs until the estate was settled, while my father’s estate was covering the legal fees associated with the probate.

  I couldn’t sell the property or transfer ownership, I couldn’t build on it or remove anything of value from it, but I could occupy it. I could hide here, for a while. Marianne was the only person I’d ever told that it had come to me.

  The groceries were unloaded and about half of them put away when I heard the sound of a car coming down the lane. I hadn’t really understood how quiet it was out here—just birdsong and the occasional distant sound of a vehicle or tractor or airplane, and, closer, the low hum of the pump and water heater. No voices arguing from the street below, no throb of traffic on a nearby street broken by squeals of breaks or blares of horns or screams of sirens, no heavy aircraft passing overhead and shrieking children passing by on their way to and from school. LA was noise itself—thick with noise and sticky with grime and asphalt. My small second-story apartment was full of it, echoed with it twenty-four hours a day.

  Here, I could hear a car approaching from a mile away.

  I dropped the bag I’d been holding and dashed to the door, my heart racing with sudden panic. There was nowhere to hide in the camper. There would be nowhere to hide outside, nowhere to run to where I couldn’t be seen.

  I’d thought this was a refuge, but now I saw the truth. It was a trap, a place to be cornered and treed. My car was out front. The gate wasn’t even locked.

  Only then, after days of resisting, did I let my thoughts stray to the dull metal object that lay in the bottom of my duffel bag on the floor of the clothes cupboard. It was loaded, Marianne had told me when she shoved it into the bag. I hadn’t checked. I hadn’t touched it. I’d never held a gun, much less fired one.

  “Last resort,” was what she’d said. But a last resort for what, or for whom, I hadn’t wanted to consider.

  Even as I allowed myself to think of it, I knew I wasn’t going to use it. I stood frozen, my breath coming in shallow gasps, staring out the small, dirty window in the door with wide, dry eyes. I could see it now—a dark sedan, coming slowly down the rutted lane, closer and closer, partially obscured by the dust it was raising even at a low speed. It had a roof rack of some kind on the top of it, or lights—

  And then I saw that it was a police car.

  My panic faded as quickly as it had come, collapsing in a sodden sense of relief that didn’t last as my anxiety grew again—a different kind of anxiety. This was still a problem. Maybe it wasn’t assassins—or whoever I’d lain awake imagining and dreading in the cold, dark, lonely hours the past few nights. But it wasn’t good. I watched numbly as the police car drew up in front of the closed but unlocked gate and a man stepped out, watched him looking over the property with a calm, assessing air. He wore sunglasses and a light brown uniform with the standard belt and badge, but was otherwise blank—just the shape of a man, no features, nothing that I could take in.

  I was going to have to step outside and talk to him. My hand shook on the door latch, Marianne’s voice, unnaturally harsh and loud, echoing in my head.

  “No police, Lo. Do not go anywhere near the police.”

  “But—but why? If you’re in trouble they can help protect you—”

  “They can’t. They just can’t, OK? They can’t help either of us. And if you go to them they’ll arrest you.”

  A shocked silence as I watched her throw clothing into my duffel bag and zip it closed.

  “What?” I’d finally demanded. “What are you saying? Are you—what did you do?”

  Her mouth had clamped tightly shut. “You don’t need to know. But trust me, Lo. The police won’t help—not the FBI or local cops or anybody. They can’t. Stay away from them. Just—just please hide. Hide as long as you can—for me. I’ll try to make it right.”

  And then she’d gone.

  And a cop was walking up to the front door of my hiding place.

  Chapter 2

  “Hello?” He called out. “Anyone home?”

  With a deep breath that didn’t help at all, I swung open the heavy door and stepped outside.

  “Hi,” I said, my voice pitched just a shade too high.

  He’d been standing next to my car, and took a few casual steps toward me, removing his sunglasses as he did so. It was really too dark under the shadow of the trees for shaded lenses. We stared at each other for a moment, and then he introduced himself.

  “I’m Deputy Tom Marquardt,” he said. “Are you staying here?”

  “Yes, I am. Hello. I’m Lola—Bright,” I reached out my hand awkwardly, and he stepped forward to shake it, a brief cool shake. I had to give my name; it was too risky to do anything else. It was on my car registration if he ran the plates on my Acura, not to mention on my driver’s license. I didn’t know how to believe Marianne when she said the police would arrest me if I went to them, but I trusted her enough to at least obey her command to avoid them. She hadn’t said what to do if the police came to me.

  “Nice to meet you, Lola. Are you a relative of Joe’s?” the deputy asked.

  “Sort of. He was a family friend. I inherited this property last year, but it’s the first time I’ve visited.”

  “Oh, I see.” He smiled, relaxing slightly; watching him as carefully as I was, I noticed. “We heard it was caught up in some kind of probate mess.”

  I nodded, forcing my lips to curve into the semblance of a smile. Now that I could make out his features, I saw that he was around my age—maybe in his late 20s or early 30s, tanned, with hair bleached light by the sun and the sort of weathered look that even younger people get when they spend a lot of time outside. From a dating perspective, he wasn’t unattractive—if I’d seen his picture I’d have clicked on his profile, swiped right instead of left. I couldn’t help the analysis, even if I wasn’t thinking of the deputy in those terms. Five years on the LA dating scene had taught me to make lightning-fast first impressions of men and adjust myself according to what I saw.

  Tom Marquardt was a surfer at heart, this was just his day job. He had surfer hair, surfer skin, a surfer’s body. I had the sense that he was inclined to be friendly and open-minded, but could be tough if necessary. And had we connected online and gone on a first date in LA, he wouldn’t have called me for a second one.

  “One of the neighbors saw the car turn in earlier and called it in,” he explained easily. “Not that they were trying to make trouble or anything, but nobody’s been out here for a while and they were concerned it might be a trespasser. We had a few squatters hanging around this past winter so people have been watching out.”

  “That’s good of them,” I said mechanically, hoping none of the people watching out were especially inquisitive or neighborly, and feeling the hope wither as quickly as it had bloomed. Of course they would be either inquisitive or neighborly, or both. Uncle Joe had lived here for decades, he’d made friends in the area. He was a loner, but not a misanthropic one.

  “Are you planning to stay long?”

  “I’m not sure,” I said honestly. “I needed a break from LA—my job ended, and it seemed like a good chance to come check out the property and—and take a vacation, you know. It’s so beautiful here.”

  “Are you originally from LA?” he asked.

  “No—the South Bay. I moved down there a few years ago.”

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sp; “Like it?”

  “Not really,” I admitted. “I’m thinking of moving back up north.”

  He smiled again. It was a nice smile, showing nice teeth, but I was too keyed up to really appreciate it.

  “I don’t blame you. Other than the waves, there’s not much about SoCal that appeals to me.”

  I knew it: surfer.

  Suddenly it felt a little uncomfortable to be standing around in the yard. Was he going to stay? Should I ask him in for a—water, or coffee? Or a cocktail; did they drink on duty in places like this?

  “Did you want to come in?” I asked, feeling like it was better to just tear off the Band-Aid than let the pressure mount, pulling my thoughts firmly away from the lethal object in the duffel bag. “I’m in the middle of unloading some groceries, but you’re welcome to…”

  “Thanks for asking, but I should get back. One last thing—do you happen to know anyone in the area?” I must have looked at him a little blankly, because he quickly added, “I mean, do you have friends or family nearby, or have you met any of your neighbors?”

  “No,” I said. “I’ve only been here one other time, years ago. Why do you ask?”

  He cleared his throat.

  “Well, it’s just that—not that there’s anything to concern you, but there are some people in town who aren’t as… uh, respectable, as you might want.”

  “Respectable,” I repeated.

  He fiddled with his sunglasses, seeming slightly embarrassed.

  “We’ve been asked—I mean, we’ve been keeping an eye on them, and it was suggested that we drop a hint to any visitors about the—the situation. It’s not that big a deal, but better to be safe than sorry, right?”

  “Yeah—I mean, of course. So they live around here, or…?”

  “They—it’s just some people who run a bar down the road. Nothing you need to worry about, but if you go there, just keep your guard up.”

  Just what I needed—more things to be afraid of.

  “What are they under suspicion of?”

  “I’m not at liberty to say.” The talking point slipped awkwardly out of his mouth. “I wouldn’t have mentioned it, except they told—it was suggested that we make people aware of the situation. Plus,” this with more frankness than his rehearsed phrases, “it’s one of the only bars around here that isn’t an overpriced grill, so almost everyone ends up going there anyway.”

  “I’ll be careful,” I assured him. “I’m not really that into going out.”

  This was the truth. The last thing I wanted was to spend time in some local dive bar, alone or making new friends, much less one where the owners—or managers, or whoever—were being watched by the police.

  “OK. Well, if you do feel like a break from nature, a bunch of us play trivia there on Friday nights. You’d be welcome to join us.”

  “Oh—um, thanks. I’ll think about it.”

  “It’s just down the highway a little ways, the Hideout.”

  Ironic on so many levels, I thought, but didn’t say aloud.

  “OK. Thanks,” I said again.

  With another smile and a wave, he headed back to his car, me slowly following as far as the gate. When he’d driven back down the lane and was completely out of sight, I clicked the padlock into place, and went back inside.

  ■ ■ ■

  Deputy Tom’s visit had given me a lot to think—and worry—about. My mind buzzed unhappily with new information as I finished putting away what I’d bought, automatically finding the most efficient place for each item before moving to the next.

  When the food items were done, I moved onto the housewares: bottle opener, can opener, pot and pan, kettle and mug, minimum cutlery, plates and glasses, paring knife, cutting board, dish towel, pillow, blanket, sheets and towels—which were at least new if not freshly washed. Finally the toiletries, which the grocery store had fortunately sold. Toothpaste, shampoo and conditioner, hand soap, face wash, and household supplies: toilet cleaner and brush, all-purpose cleaning spray, paper towels, dish soap, toilet paper.

  After two hours, it was dusk, and my tiny home was complete. Three books and two magazines sat on the bookshelf. The bed was made and folded away, ready to be pulled out tonight. I turned on one of the low lamps above the couch and was glad to see it work, since I hadn’t bought any light bulbs. My limited items of clothing had been hung up and folded, my toothbrush sat in a little steel toothbrush holder above the bathroom sink.

  Satisfied with my work, if not with my thoughts, I stepped outside and walked to the edge of the trees. The sun was sinking low directly ahead of me, casting its last orange beams onto the camper, warming my skin.

  So peaceful. Peaceful and lovely. I found myself wishing that I’d come here before—with my dad when Joe was alive, or even after both of them were gone and the place had come to me. I wished I’d been able to enjoy it without gnawing anxiety and guilt and fear, staying here for a quiet rest as Deputy Tom believed, having a relaxing getaway from the stresses of daily life. I could imagine what that would feel like—how glad I’d be to have this place to come to, how much pleasure I’d take in being out here on my own without this heavy weight of dread. How much fun it would be to plan a walk by the ocean or in the hills tomorrow, to nest in the camper I’d coveted and adored all those years ago.

  But I hadn’t taken that chance. And for now, anyway, none of that was possible.

  I turned my back on the sunset and went inside, pouring myself a large tumbler of red wine and forcing a few crackers and slices of cheese down with it. I hadn’t had any kind of appetite for days now; it was the best I could do. The wine tasted good, though, and I drank it thirstily.

  If I’d been dieting, this would have been a lucky break, but I wasn’t dieting. I’d always had a tendency to be on the skinny side—but not the kind of skinny with big boobs and a sexy butt. The other kind of thin, the adolescent boy figure. Women who feel they have too many curves might resent someone like me, but it wasn’t better to be flat and angled. I still had cellulite on my thighs, just not the bust that went with it. I could wear those much-coveted smaller sizes in clothes, but they didn’t show off anything interesting. I might have pulled off my straight figure with a few extra inches, but I was average height. The only things I felt I had going for me were my mouth and cheekbones—high, elegant cheekbones and a wide mouth that balanced them out. Men who reached out on dating apps usually complimented one or the other. “Great cheeks.” “Beautiful smile.”

  Nobody ever complimented my body, which, given the context, was just as well, really. And nobody ever said that I looked like a Lola—it implied a far more sexy and exotic kind of woman than I. My hair was a naturally dirty blond, worn long because it tended to curl wildly when it was short, my eyes so dark a blue they looked brown, my skin medium fair—not a likely combination given my genetic makeup. My mom, in happy ignorance of my future figure and coloring, had adored Barry Manilow’s “Copa Cabana” and named her only child after the song. She’d belted it in the car at the top of her lungs, always out of tune, usually with the windows down. If I’d had a brother, he almost certainly would have had been called Rico.

  Two tumblers of wine and seven chapters of a predictable historical romance were enough to send me to sleep. The last wearying days had tired me out enough to sleep soundly, though I woke several times during the night, hearing the hooting of an owl in the distance, the soft thrum of a car that faded almost as soon as I identified it and before I had time to react. The camper felt solid and relatively safe—the door was locked, the windows latched and too small to climb through, the thick metal around me like my own private bomb shelter. I couldn’t stand a siege for very long, but I was somewhat protected. Right now that was really all I could hope for.

  Waking up slowly in the dim light of morning to the sound of wildly joyful birdsong, I felt stronger and less exhausted, as if both my mind and body had gotten sufficient rest. I wrapped up in a sweater—even snug inside the camper I could tell
the outside air was crisp—and made myself a cup of instant coffee and half-and-half, sipping it at the tiny booth and looking out the window. The mountains stood tall against the light from the east, so that the property would be in shadow long after sunrise, even after the sky itself was pale blue. A soft mist drifted across a gully, which lay some distance to the south, thick with brush and trees. Birds of various kinds hopped and flew cheerfully around the yard and the grassland beyond it.

  Today I’d explore the property, look through what else was here. Find a cover for the car. Maybe a lawn chair so I could sit outside.

  And tomorrow—what would I do tomorrow? Or the next day? Or the next?

  How many days would I have to stay here? How many trips would I make to Safeway? How many hours would I spend waiting to hear something—anything—from Marianne?

  What if I never heard from her? What then?

  I stared bleakly into my coffee cup, unable to give myself any answers. All I could do was get through the next few minutes, the next hour. All I could do was hope.

  ■ ■ ■

  After three days, I was more restless than I would have believed possible. It was almost enough to cancel out the fear, which was still there, but much less believable now, away from Marianne’s frightened eyes, nothing having happened to increase my unease. Nobody had come by to check on or bother me, not one nosy neighbor or Good Samaritan with a casserole. No suspicious cars had slunk by the lane, no curious “hikers” had lingered on the nearby hillside—nobody I saw, anyway. It was almost enough to make me doubt.

  That is, until the phone rang.

  I’d been outside in the yard, which now held a small metal table and chair set from under one of the tarps and some other odds and ends that made the place feel more homey. In the shed I’d found a battered but useable cruiser bicycle, complete with wicker basket, along with an air pump and gear grease, both on a set of dusty shelves holding a variety of tools and cleaners, paint cans and wasp traps. I’d spent an industrious hour polishing and oiling and pumping so that it would be ready to use—if I felt brave enough to go anywhere.