Spiders in a Dark Web

by Emily Senecal

  “Was that what you expected?” she asked tartly, squeezing hard before letting go.

  She gave me a little shake and looked from us to the official next to her—a woman of about forty, I now saw, who evidently held a position of authority. Like the others, she wore an FBI vest, hers over a severe white shirt and black slacks. Added to this were glasses and minimal makeup, dark hair pulled back in a tight ponytail. She held a phone in her hand, and seemed not to carry a gun.

  “You’re the people who sent the information to us,” the official stated, her face giving nothing away.

  “I did,” I said quickly, before Peter could answer.

  “Where did you get it?”

  “On—from the darknet,” I said steadily.

  She nodded and looked at Marianne.

  “Right. Well, we’ll need to take your full statements about what happened tonight and leading up to this arrest.”

  “OK,” I agreed, feeling like anything I said right now would be disjointed at best.

  “For the time being, we’re going to leave you here. We need to get the suspect processed and mobilize our teams. We’ll have officers posted outside and in the lobby. Please don’t try to leave.”

  “Did you get her?” Peter asked, speaking for the first time.

  “Not yet,” the official said stonily, and I wondered how many people would be held accountable for that. The idea of my aunt—who was even more dangerous than I’d ever imagined—having escaped, the threat she presented, hadn’t sunk in yet. It was enough that Leonard was in custody.

  That we were safe, at least for now.

  We stood in the hallway—conveniently empty of other guests, lined with several more armed officers—while they brought Leonard out. Now that he was alone, unarmed and in restraints, he seemed less terrifying, more of a brutish bully than a cunning villain. It was a false impression; I’d seen in his eyes just how ruthless and calculating he was, but he’d been caught, and on top of that, abandoned by his helpmate. Not to say she’d given up on him, but you couldn’t deny that she’d saved herself and left him to deal with his fate.

  Sneering a little, Leonard marched down the hall under heavy guard, toward the nearest service elevator. Most of the rest of the officers followed, leaving one man in plainclothes—a secret-service-like suit—outside our door. He stood passively next to the abandoned champagne trolley, which had been wheeled outside to get it out of the way.

  Pausing to speak to us before she left, the official in charge said, indicating the man, “There are more of them around. I doubt she’ll come back—they lost her on Market—but if she does she won’t make it up here. Stay in the room or we’ll take you into custody.”

  We went inside and she shut the door firmly behind her, leaving us to look at one another. I went over and sat down on the bed, staring vacantly at the wall.

  “How’d she do that?” Peter asked Marianne, coming to sit beside me. “Escape, I mean.”

  Marianne shrugged.

  “Judo… and some other things,” she said.

  “But there were more police in the hall… downstairs…”

  “She’s fast—and thinks fast. I didn’t think she’d manage a clean getaway, but you have to admit it was impressive.”

  She walked over to the hotel courtesy phone and picked up the receiver.

  “I need a drink—or several,” she muttered to no one in particular, then placed an order for three hamburgers with fries and a bottle of Johnny Walker Black.

  “I can’t afford that,” I protested when she’d hung up, dollar signs dancing in front of my bleary eyes.

  “It’s fine,” she waved it away. “I’ll cover it.” She threw herself into the nearest chair, which happened to be the one Rosemary had lately occupied, and gave a choke of laugher. “You wouldn’t believe how excited they were to have a lead on such wanted criminals—on U.S. soil, no less. I think the Interpol people just about had kittens.”

  Without saying anything, Peter got up and handed each of us a cold bottle of water from the mini-bar, as well as taking one for himself. They were probably sixteen-dollar water bottles, but I heedlessly opened mine and drank deeply from it. Marianne did the same.

  “Marianne, how did you get here? What happened?” I asked, suddenly wildly curious.

  “I knew what you were planning from your email last night,” she said. “It was what I’d hoped you’d do—I mean, not exactly this, but I hoped you send everything to the authorities. Thank God the evidence came through.”

  “We thought as much,” Peter said. “Though I’m still curious as to why you didn’t just turn it over to the authorities yourself.”

  “Chicken, I guess,” she said, looking uncomfortable for the first time. “I… I’d seen what they did to people who crossed them. If I turned them in and they found out about it—they wouldn’t just take me out, they’d take out Lo and anyone else connected to us. I mean, sure, ideally the Feds could protect us, but what if they didn’t? And what if it didn’t help—what if they never got arrested? I wasn’t even convinced my contact hadn’t cheated me and the proof wasn’t there at all. If you got it to the powers that be, at least it couldn’t be traced back to me and Lo, or not right away. And then I got Lo’s email and saw what you meant to do, and that was even better. I’d be the best chance to pin them down—if I led them here it could only sweeten the temptation, so I let it be known I was on my way to San Francisco. They must have arrived not long before me. They were somewhere in Venezuela, working on a deal there, so it didn’t take them long to get here.”

  “But how did you connect with the police—or whoever they were?” I asked.

  “Mostly FBI, though the woman we were talking to was Interpol. They were in the service areas when I got here, just setting up their surveillance. Great timing, right? I asked at the front desk and was shown back, managed to talk my way to someone who’d listen and gave them a brief rundown on what was going on—with a few edits. I told them that as a family member and reformed associate of the DiGregorios, I’d been the source of the information which you’d sent on. As soon as they checked the register and hotel security cameras, they saw Rose and Leo heading to your room right on your heels, clear as day. I insisted that this was a trap and we were the bait, and they needed to act fast if they wanted to nab the bad guys. I don’t think the rest of them would have listened, but the woman in charge—Nelson—had a lot of background on her targets and believed me when I said there was a hostage situation going on. You didn’t mean to be sitting ducks, I told her, you just couldn’t help it.”

  “I won’t argue with you,” Peter said with some bitterness. “We should have seen it coming.”

  Marianne shrugged.

  “I don’t know if you ever see them coming. At least help was nearby. Anyway, she held off arresting me long enough to check out my story and let me try the door first, with the whole champagne stunt. From something she said about ‘not taking any chances this time,’ it made me think she could have been part of the team who almost caught them in Rio. That was a huge clusterfuck, I wouldn’t be surprised if it left some scars. Whatever happened, she wasn’t willing to risk it happening again, and she’s calling the shots—or at least she was. Seems like now the Feds are taking over.” She gulped water and made a face. “I just hope none of them are ripe for corruption. Leonard’s a master at bribing the un-bribable.”

  “It’s crazy how fast everyone got here,” I said, more to myself than anyone else.

  “Hey, you get a hot tip like that, it’s worth acting on. They didn’t have a very big team, though, did you notice that? That’s probably how she got away. I wonder if they even told SFPD they were coming here.”

  “Surely they have to?” Peter asked in surprise.

  “Do they, though? At best it might be an FYI or something.”

  “I’m sure the hotel is thrilled,” I said, thinking of what Brendan had said. Though really, wasn’t that partly why I’d chosen it? The incongruity of a
fancy hotel being the setting for a sting?

  Marianne gave a short laugh.

  “As long as they send up our food soon, I don’t care. I’m starving. My last meal was airplane peanuts.”

  “Your parents must have gotten here before we did,” Peter said pensively. “Waiting in the lobby, probably. I didn’t even bother to look.”

  “Don’t feel bad about it—they’re masters at blending in. Probably hung around a big group and laid low until they could make a move. You wouldn’t have seen them if you’d been looking. It worked out that you walked in without suspicion and the cops didn’t have a big splashy presence, otherwise Rosemary would’ve sniffed the whole thing out. How did they get into your room, anyway?”

  “With this,” Peter said, leaning down to pick something up off the floor under the edge of the bed. It was a credit card, but not my credit card. The name was Jeremy Bristow. “One of the employees came to the room to return it to us. They pushed in as he left.”

  “An oldie, but a goodie. They probably stole the card, strolled by, pretended to pick it up and said, ‘Oh, that nice young couple dropped this, someone should take it to their room immediately.’”

  Her impression of her mother was uncannily accurate, if exaggerated. A shudder went up my spine.

  “What if it hadn’t worked?” Peter persisted.

  “They’d have figured out something else. They always do.”

  ■ ■ ■

  A few minutes of silence followed this depressing remark. I finally got up and went to the bathroom, washed my hands and face, looked longingly at the shower but decided to wait. When I came back out, Marianne and Peter were still sitting on bed and chair, contemplating each other across the floor where he’d so recently fallen. Marianne had taken off her jacket and was fiddling with the long hem of her dark gray shirt. I sat down beside Peter and kicked off my shoes.

  “I wish I’d known sooner,” I said, sipping from my half-full bottle of water.

  Marianne nodded.

  “Well, I wish you didn’t have to know at all,” she said, meeting my eyes, “but I’m glad I don’t have to lie anymore.”

  “What’s going to happen—to you?”

  She sighed and stretched out her legs.

  “Oh, I’m turning myself in. What they want to do with me is up to them. I’m sort of surprised nobody’s taken me into custody yet, given what I told them, but I guess I’m a small fish compared to Leonard. Anyway it isn’t as though I’m going anywhere. Plenty of time to arrest me later.” Her voice was breezy, but I wasn’t fooled.

  “It’s… I can’t believe how brave you are,” I marveled. “Going through all of this alone, finding that evidence—”

  “Me?” she interrupted. “You’re the brave one, you idiot. All I did was keep my head down and cheat a bunch of people.”

  “You were protecting me—and my parents!”

  “And me. Don’t forget that,” she pointed out sharply. “I could have reported them years ago and avoided all this. But you—Lo, when I showed up and told you to run, you ran and hid by yourself. I thought for sure you’d go to the police, knowing at least you’d be protected that way, but you didn’t. And then you came looking for me—”

  “That was Peter’s idea,” I objected, surprised by her vehemence.

  “I only suggested it because of you,” he said firmly, taking my hand. “Because of who you are. It was obvious that you didn’t like the idea of hiding, especially when Marianne might be in trouble. I just gave you a reason to go.” I stared at him uncomprehendingly, and he laughed. “You were the one who found me—that first night at the bar, when you came around the back, remember? You weren’t afraid to take that step… to trust me without any rational reason to. Even though I felt such a strong attraction, I can’t honestly say I would have followed up on it if you hadn’t walked up to me that night. I agree with your cousin. You’re incredibly brave. So is she,” he added politely, and she grinned at him.

  “But not as brave,” she said.

  “I don’t see it,” I said, moved and slightly overwhelmed by this unexpected tribute. “I feel like I’m afraid of everything. But thanks.”

  “It’s not about not being afraid—that’s where the bravery comes in. When push came to shove you were always tougher than me. Remember when you used your parents’ computer to hack into that pizza place and get free pizzas delivered? That was the coolest thing I’ve ever seen, and you were, what, fourteen?”

  “Oh, that…” I said, glancing sheepishly at Peter, who raised an eyebrow.

  “As soon as you did it, I was positive we were going to get arrested and completely panicked, and you calmed me down and gritted your teeth and said at least we could eat all the pizza first. We ate every slice—and we never did get caught.”

  “I was probably too immature to know what I was doing. And I never hacked into anything again.”

  “That wasn’t the only time. Far from it. You always just—jumped, even if you were scared. There’s a reason you learned how to swim a year before I did—and why you were the one who finally convinced me to get into the pool. When Aunt Gina… She told me what you did for her the last time we talked. How strong you were. And, well… anyway.” I blinked away sudden tears and swallowed the lump rising in my throat. Marianne gave her eyes a hasty rub, then continued briskly, “Given some of our exploits, I was kind of surprised you didn’t offer to get the files off the darknet yourself.”

  “Ah,” Peter said.

  “Didn’t know your new girlfriend was a certifiable genius, did you?”

  “She kept that to herself.”

  “Not a genius,” I said. “Far from it. But you’re right—I could have done it. I just didn’t know I could.”

  “A useful new skill,” Marianne assured me. “Next time I need a hacker I know who to call.”

  A knock interrupted our conversation, the fourth and final knock that night. We opened the door to find our guard carefully examining a laden room service trolley, while the waiter—a real one this time—stood by, watching him interestedly. After finding nothing untoward in the three hamburgers and bottle of scotch, the guard politely wished us a good evening, nodded to the waiter to enter the room, and, once we’d finished our transaction, escorted him back out. I signed for the bill without even looking at the total, adding a hundred dollars as a tip. If we were going down, might as well go in a burst of fireworks.

  We devoured that food—I didn’t even remember eating it afterward, it was just a blur of greasy fries and meat and dripping sauce. As soon as we’d finished and were wiping sticky hands on white cloth napkins, Marianne poured the scotch. It went down beautifully, burning in the best way, immediately relaxing my taut nerves.

  “So, what’d the parents say to you?” Marianne asked, already on her third glass.

  I couldn’t judge: I was also well into my third. Peter and I were lounging together on one side of the large bed, propped against the headboard, while she lay across the opposite corner.

  “Not much, really,” I said, feeling no pain at all. “She said I looked nothing like my mother. And made some threats… they were going to shoot Peter!”

  “Both of us, actually,” Peter said.

  “Bastards,” she said, and poured out another round.

  “They wanted to know what the evidence was and how you were involved,” Peter added, the soberest of the group. “Lola told them you were going to testify in exchange for immunity.”

  She began to laugh, giggling uncontrollably until she nearly fell off the bed. We watched her tolerantly while she writhed in mirth.

  “Oh my God, they must have been wild!” she gasped, calming down at last. “I wish I’d seen it! That’s basically their worst nightmare.”

  “They weren’t happy about it,” Peter said, then asked, “Would you do it?”

  Wiping her eyes with her hands, Marianne took a long sip and swallowed before answering.

  “I don’t know if the Justice Department�
��or anybody—will want to make a deal with me,” she said. “But yeah. I would. Even if they don’t grant me immunity.” She let out her breath in a long, shaky sigh. “I’ve done a lot of things I’m not proud of. Even if I didn’t want to do them, I still did them. I convinced people the causes were legit. Good people. I lied and helped take their money. Maybe I don’t… Maybe I don’t deserve to be let off the hook.”

  “Don’t sell yourself short,” Peter said reasonably. “If it wasn’t for you, they wouldn’t have anyone to prosecute.”

  A short silence fell, and then I heard myself asking, “So what’s the deal with Leonard—he’s Australian?”

  Marianne choked on another sip, laughing.

  “I guess so,” she said. “I only found out when they revealed their sordid life of crime. He’s convincing in his roles, I’ll give him that.”

  “I’d never have guessed,” I said. “Is that his real name?”

  “Who knows? They’re on my birth certificate as Rosemary Brixton and Leonard DiGregorio, but doesn’t mean much.” She hiccupped gently and continued, slurring only a little. “Y’know, I used to hope they weren’t my real parents. Maybe they’d just—hic—picked me up somewhere. But I s’pose she gave birth to me. Unfortunately. Don’t know if he’s actually my dad, though. Hope—hic—lives on.”

  “Do you think it’s strange that my mom never told me she and Rosemary weren’t actually related?”

  “I dunno. Maybe she wanted us to feel—hic—like real cousins. She was only about a year old when her dad got hitched to Rosemary’s mom—looked it up a couple years ago. Rosemary was… twelve. Thirteen? Knowing her, you gotta think she hated a baby around. Bet she was up to no good for years ‘fore she hooked up with Leonard and started their—hic—racket. Wherever that was.”

  “He might’ve had a record in Australia before coming here,” Peter suggested lazily, his eyes half-shut.