A/N: I posted 2 chapters: the prologue and chapter 1. Please read both. Also, I have no set schedule for posting. It may be once a week, once every other week, or once a month (hopefully not). I have no idea. I want to take my time with this story and ensure everything is correct before posting. So, I'm taking more time with each chapter. If you don't want to miss an update, please follow. As with the last story, the last chapter is already written; it's just getting there that's the journey for me.
Here we go.
Ch. 1: The Spider and the Fly
GIL
2009
Pacific Ocean
He felt the boat moving, dipping and tilting, yawing in the water as they laid in bed together. Sara with her head on his chest as his hand rubbed her arm and shoulder. It was a windy night and he felt it in every change of direction of the boat. It was actually calming; the movement relaxing him as if rocking him into a gentle, peaceful sleep. Sara, on the other hand, didn't like it. She didn't trust the water nor the wind. It would take some getting used to, a life at sea, but they had time to figure it out.
Picking up the book of poems, he flipped to one of his favorites to read to her in an attempt to hopefully calm her nerves. She needed to sleep; it'd been a long first week on the water and away from land. Focusing on the words on the page, his mind started to wonder as he read:
"Will you walk into my parlour?" said a spider to a fly;
"'Tis the prettiest little parlour that ever you did spy.
The way into my parlour is up a winding stair,
And I have many pretty things to shew when you are there."
"Oh no, no!" said the little fly, "to ask me is in vain,
For who goes up your winding stair can ne'er come down again."
1964
California
He'd just gotten home from school and was in his bedroom, sitting at the table by the window, and doing his homework when he heard a noise at the door. Looking up, he saw his mother standing there. Her eyes were angry and he saw the green and purple from the bruise on her cheek under the makeup.
She signed, /Gilbert, have you seen your grandmother's ring?/
She only called him Gilbert when she was upset with him. Without asking, he'd taken the ring to school and had given it to Janie, the girl in his class who had pigtails, wore glasses, and sat with him at recess in the grass to play with the bugs. A ring meant she was his girl, his friend, and the ring was a promise to always be friends, or at least that was what he thought. His parents wore rings.
His mother wasn't happy with his answer and told him to get the ring back. The next day at school, he had to ask her for it back, explaining how his mother was upset that he'd taken it. Having taken one of his books to class, 'Where the Wild Things Are', his favorite, he exchanged it for the ring. Giving her his favorite book, he told her that they'd always be friends.
As he handed the ring to his mother, he signed as he asked her, /What is love?/
She didn't answer him, only told him that he was too young to know about such things. Then she told him, /Stay away from girls. They will only hurt you and bring nothing but trouble./
His mother thought everyone would hurt them and bring nothing but trouble. She didn't trust anyone. He started to realize that both his parents had two faces. One they showed the outside world, and the other they showed only in the privacy of their home. His father was a botanist, a professor. He'd seen him smile at other teachers and students, even help them. At home, he never smiled. He taught him about plants because that was the only thing talked about around him or with him. Any other time and he was quiet. Very still, until he exploded. That usually happened at night and against his mother.
His mother liked being praised for her art. She enjoyed the attention. All the attention had to be directed at her. She wanted approval, the cheers, and the eyes of other men. Then at home, she wanted nothing to do with him or the outside world. She shut it all out and said it couldn't be trusted. No one could be trusted. They weren't like them. They wouldn't understand.
She also didn't want his attention and never gave him her attention. If he wanted something, a gift for a birthday, he had to write it down and hope he got it. Sometimes he did, other times he didn't. His mother loved Christmas and that was the only reason he ever received anything on the holiday. It was the one time a year where she received gifts and gave them away. The one time where she appeared happy all day.
Deciding to figure out on his own what love was, he searched through his stack of books and poetry as he tried to figure out which ones explained love. Shakespeare had always written about love, didn't he? In 'A Midsummer's Night Dream' he wrote that: "Love looks not with the eyes, but with the mind; And therefore is winged Cupid painted."
For him, those words rang true. He didn't search for love with his eyes, nor with his heart, but with his mind. Love to him was how a person thought. Equal mindedness equated to love.
At eight years old, that meant the girl who liked bugs. Unfortunately, his friendship with Janie didn't last long as she and her family moved away.
Before she left, she gave him his book back, ending their friendship.
"I'm sure you must be weary, with soaring up so high,
Will you rest upon my little bed?" said the spider to the fly.
"There are pretty curtains drawn around, the sheets are fine and thin;
And if you like to rest awhile, I'll snugly tuck you in."
"Oh no, no!" said the little fly, "for I've often heard it said,
They never, never wake again, who sleep upon your bed!"
1975
Steadying the camera, he focused the lens on the bee buzzing against the window. Beyond the glass was the skyline of Los Angeles. The skyline blurred as the fluttering wings and the body of the bee sharped in his sight. Pressing the button, he took a picture.
"Did you just take a picture of a bee?"
Smiling as he took another one, he told his roommate, a physics student named Adam, as he stepped back to finish the shot with one last picture, "Bees are essential to every species, even ours."
Adam was silent a moment before muttering, "Why did I decide to room with an entomologist? You're not going to-"
He looked over at Adam as he lowered the camera, waiting for him to finish his question. "To what?" he asked when he didn't.
Adam was sitting on the couch, textbook in hand and notepads scattered over the coffee table in front of him. "Bring home bugs, are you?"
Wrinkling his head in confusion, he told him, "I already have. They're in my room. Got an ant farm, spider-"
Adam stared at him as he said, "Spider? Gil, it better not be poisonous or else you're going to need to find another person to pay half these bills."
"It's poisonous, just...not to humans. His name's Moe. I'll get Curly and Larry later." Upon seeing the look on Adam's face, he nearly laughed at the shock and bewilderment.
Then the front door opened and he turned in the chair he was sitting in at his desk by the window and saw Pamela Stevens walk in. She was another student, a psychology major, and a friend of Adam's. She was also a girl that made him consider the possibility of dating. She had blue eyes and brown hair and every time she saw him she gave him a smile.
He asked Adam once why she always came around and Adam told him that not only was she his friend, but also…"I think she likes you," Adam had told him.
Him? She liked him?
As he looked at her across the room as she took off her boots by the door, he thought back to a few months ago when Adam had first told him that she liked him.
It was nearly Christmas and Adam decided to throw a party in celebration. The only problem was he decided to throw it in their apartment, which was two blocks away from UCLA campus. Adam had invited the entire physics club he had joined, along with several friends he'd known since high school, Pamela was one of those friends.
He had no friends to invite, but he also didn't want to be there. While Christmas music blared out of the turntable speakers in the living room, he sat in his room and listened to his Beatles records as he tried to study, and read, until he couldn't. It was too loud.
Getting up, he raised the needle off the spinning record, interrupting George Harrison's singing of the song "Something", and turned it off. Grabbing his jacket and camera, he went to leave when his bedroom door opened in front of him. Pamela was standing there with two cups in her hand.
They stared at one another a moment as she handed the cup over, saying, "I thought you might like some punch. It's spiked."
"With what?" he asked as he smelt it and immediately smelt the alcohol as she answered.
"Vodka."
He looked away from her as he gave a nod and handed it back. "I was just leaving."
"Do you want company?" she asked.
He didn't. "No," he said before walking around her and out the bedroom. She didn't seem happy about that, and she even looked sad. He didn't know why. So, he stopped as he asked her, "You seem sad. Why-"
Looking up at him, she said, "I thought we could spend some time together and talk."
He didn't do much talking. It really wasn't his strong suit, and he never was good at talking to girls about things girls wanted him to talk about, like…Well, he didn't really know. All he knew was that whenever he talked about something he liked, they all stopped being interested in what he had to say. No girl wanted to hear about insects, or photography, or..."Talk about what?"
She smiled slightly as she shrugged, "You. What you like," she said as she walked into his room and looked at his record player. "Abbey Road. The Beatles were my favorite band when I was a kid."
When she was a kid? Was she insulting him? He had no idea. She picked up the album cover and he told her, "The, um, the picture on the cover was taken on August 8th, 1969. The British police had to hold up traffic for ten minutes so it could be shot. Six pictures in total were taken. It became one of the most famous album cover photos I think based solely on the rumor of Paul's death. There was an article in Life magazine in November of 1969 where Paul-'' he stopped talking as she gave him an odd look.
Then she saw his camera. "I guess being a photographer you would know that. Do you want to take pictures of famous people? Celebrities?"
He shook his head as he answered, "No. I don't care much about celebrities. I take photos of what I do like...Bugs, mostly. Strangers on the street. Interesting-"
"Strangers on the street?" she asked as she continued around his room.
"People watching. It's, uh…I take walks and…"
His eyes followed her as she went around his room and he started to feel a tightening in his chest. His palms started to sweat as she looked at his ant farm, his spider, and then his books. Why was she touching his stuff?
He wanted her to leave. This was his room, his things, and she was interfering. Walking over to her, he grabbed the book she'd picked up out of her hand and put it back where it belonged. He really didn't like her in his personal space.
"Sorry," she said as he backed away.
Looking at her, he realized the book she'd picked up was one that she would be interested in. It was written by a psychologist. "'If You Meet the Buddha on the Road, Kill Him!"." Picking it back up, he handed it to her as he told her, "It's about obtaining meaning in life. How to alter one's destiny and accept the responsibility that comes with freedom. That...no meaning that comes from outside of ourselves is real. Meaning comes from within. No other person will be able to give us something that we can only give ourselves: purpose."
She read over the cover as she said, "That sounds interesting."
It was. He enjoyed it. "He explores that journey of finding purpose through his therapy sessions with his patients." He heard a noise at the door and glanced over to see Adam.
"Hey, there you are," Adam said as he walked into his room. He had a Santa Claus hat on his head and cup in his hand. Looking between them, he said, "Am I interrupting?"
"No," he said. "I was just leaving."
"Leaving?" Adam asked. "Come on out here and have a drink, eat some food. Pam made this pecan pie that's so good. You have to try it."
Pamela went to hand the book back to him when he told her, "You can read it. Take it with you, just...bring it back when you're done."
Giving a nod, she started to follow Adam out and he let out a sigh, both of relief and irritation. At least everyone was finally getting out of his personal space. He shut the door behind him as he walked into the kitchen. Adam shoved a plate and fork into his hands; on the plate was a piece of pie. As he sat down at the kitchen counter, a cup, the one Pamela had offered him earlier, was placed in front of him.
They weren't going to let him leave until he at least tried it. Picking up the fork, he took a bite as Pamela walked away. She started talking to some other girl Adam had invited over, showing her the book. The girl laughed and took the book from Pamela as she started gesturing around, getting loud and obnoxious.
His jaw hurt as he took another bite, trying to not get up to grab his book away from the other girl. The pie was good. The punch, not so much.
"I think she likes you."
"Who?" he asked as he took another drink and grimaced as it went down.
There was too much Vodka. He didn't Vodka. He liked the occasional beer and whiskey. Never tequila. He'd gotten so wasted on tequila once that he was sick for three days. He'd never make that mistake again.
Adam laughed as he leaned on the counter next to him and gestured towards Pamela. "Pam. She's interested. You should ask her out."
"She's irritating."
Adam laughed again as he grabbed his shoulder, which caused him to tense at the touch. "If a girl drives you crazy, that's love."
Was it? He had no idea, but...she did want to read his books. She also didn't run away from his room when she spotted the spider. And she realized his interest in photography. She was smart, she attracted him, and she made a damn good pecan pie. And, he wanted to share his books with her. He didn't like sharing with anyone. Was that love?
Question: Could he obtain love?
He wasn't sure, but that was a question that needed an answer.
Pamela left the living room and disappeared down the hallway, probably going to the bathroom. Once they were alone, he asked Adam, "Why's she here?"
"It's her birthday, remember? She wanted to go out tonight."
"Oh…right." He suddenly remembered the gift he'd gotten her and went to retrieve it from his bedroom. Walking back into the living room, he sat it down on the coffee table before sitting back down at his desk by the window and picked up his sketchbook.
"Gil bought that for you," he heard Adam telling Pamela when she walked back into the room.
"Thank you," Pamela said as she picked up the bag. She opened the bag and pulled out the book by Sheldon Kopp. "'If You Meet the Buddha on the Road, Kill Him!"."
Looking up from what he was drawing, he told her, "Thought I'd get you your own copy. You said you liked it but didn't get to finish it."
"Thank you." She looked down into the bag and asked, "Anything else?" She sounded disappointed. He was confused. Glancing over to Adam, he saw his amusement. He thought it was funny. She only stared at him and then smiled softly. "Thank you," she said again.
But she still didn't look happy. What could he have done wrong? He'd gotten a gift for her birthday…"Happy birthday," he finally told her as an afterthought.
Adam chuckled as he went into his bedroom, leaving the two of them alone.
"Are you going out with us tonight to celebrate?" she asked.
"I work," he said as he shook his head.
"Why do you work nights?"
"Because I have class during the day." The way she frowned, nearly a pout, annoyed him. He didn't know why, only that it seemed...childish. He didn't like it.
"But I hardly get to spend time with you."
He didn't know what that had to do with anything. And instead of saying that, he sat the sketchbook down, stood, and went into the kitchen, saying, "We're spending time together now."
He started to buy her gifts as the weeks went on, thinking that if he was in love then that was what he was supposed to do. Other than that, he didn't spend too much time with her except for when she came over to the apartment to visit and the occasional dinner once a month. She seemed to like the gifts and appreciated the books and journals he bought her. And he enjoyed playing poker as a way to get the money he needed to be able to afford to buy her things. The money he made working at the coroner's office went towards the things he wanted along with his bills.
Said the cunning spider to the fly, "Dear friend, what shall I do,
To prove the warm affection I've always felt for you?
I have, within my pantry, good store of all that's nice;
I'm sure you're very welcome—will you please to take a slice?"
"Oh no, no!" said the little fly, "kind sir, that cannot be,
I've heard what's in your pantry, and I do not wish to see."
Then one day, just for fun, she gave him the Rorschach test. She had a class on the use of the inkblots that were supposed to be a diagnosis tool for various different disorders. Deciding to use them on him, she showed him the first card.
It looked like a moth. Or the Devil. Both in one? "Death's Head Moth," he told her.
"Not surprised. Most people say that one resembles a moth or a bat." She then showed him the next one.
Upon seeing the black palms with bloody fingers, he looked away. That wasn't something he could tell her that he saw. Letting out a breath, he looked at it again and tilted his head at the picture. Red heads, black body...Bloodied heads and feet. Red head and legs? "Lytta magister, the desert blister beetle."
She frowned and looked at the card before putting it down. "Not the typical answer, but okay. How about this one?"
That one was worse. What came to mind was just as disturbing as the other picture. Two people who didn't trust one another, murdering each other by blowing their heads off while stabbing each other in the heart. All he saw was death. What signaled death? "The black witch moth. Ascalapha odorata. It's considered a harbinger, or messenger of death in Mexican and Caribbean folklore. In Jamaica, it embodies a soul not a rest, or a lost soul."
She sat down the card in annoyance as she told him, "Not everything is an insect. Let's try another one."
He really didn't want to, but she showed it to him anyway. He nearly froze at the image of the threatening shadow demon-like figure that stared down at him. The shadow was stalking, hunting, and wanting to kill. It wasn't just any shadow. It was his shadow. The one that he hid away behind a mask.
"Gil?"
Looking away, he told her, "Atrax robustus-"
"This isn't a joke."
"I know it's not," he told her as he looked at the inkblot on the card. "It looks like a figure that can be deadly, and dangerous, as it lies in wait, like a spider. That's what I see when I look at it."
"Since all you see are insects and spiders in these inkblots, what do you see when you look at a spider?"
He thought about that question as his mind focused on the image of the spider he'd seen on that inkblot. Thinking about spiders made him nearly smile. Arachnids were his favorite, aside from butterflies. "I see a lot when I look at a spider. Spiders are known to represent a number of things. They are the embodiment of artistry, for one. They weave their webs in optimal places, and if one strand breaks, they will weave again. People who identify with spiders are said to be gifted creatively. They have vivid imaginations and they're also good with their hands. They can envision, feel, or even hear what they want to create in their minds, and then manifest it in the real world in art, music, cooking, and even surgery or other medical procedures. Spiders are also known for being an intelligent arachnid who is capable of strategizing and planning, which causes them to be very patient. Patience is everything when waiting for prey to fly into the web. Which is also why the spider is skilled in the art of illusion and entrapment. And while they are killing machines, they also help to support life. They provide balance: life and death." He blinked back as he looked at Pamela and saw the odd look she had in her eyes. Taking the card in hand, he turned it to show her the image. "That's why this looks like the Sydney funnel web spider."
Pamela wrinkled her head at him as she looked at the card and then back at him. "You're weird." He nearly smirked as she took it from him and then discarding the next card completely without showing it to him, saying, "That one looks like a moth." There was a mischievous look in her eyes as she showed him the next card. "What about this one?"
That was the easiest card so far except for the first one. "A Venus flytrap capturing a whitetail skimmer. Libellula lydia." She frowned in disappointment as she sat it down. "What?" he asked in confusion. "I thought there were no wrong answers."
"That card is usually seen as the "sex" card. It's supposed to reveal how the subject views sex."
And he had seen a Venus fly trap. In a way, it did reveal how he viewed sex. It was a trap. And he didn't want to get killed by the predator lying in wait. He didn't want to be a victim, again.
He heard the key in the front door as it opened. Adam walked in and smiled as he saw Pamela sitting on the couch next to him. "Hey, Pam. Gil. You guys want to go see a movie?"
"I have to work," he told him.
Pamela sat the cards down on the coffee table and went to stand as she said, "I'll go. Oh," she stopped and picked up the last card. "Let's just do the last one."
She showed him the last card; it was brightly colored, like a display from an insect to attract a mate or prey. Green blotches on the outside, pink and blue on the inside, it reminded him of the…"Devil's flower mantis." It laid in wait, pretending to be a pretty flower, and then it decapitated its victims that it lured into the strike zone.
She sighed heavily and placed the card down, telling him, "I don't even know why I bothered. Everything with you is bugs." She sighed and stood as she went to put on her boots that she always took off by the door.
"Not everything," he said as she grabbed her purse.
He watched as her and Adam both left without him. Picking up the cards, he went back through them as he thought about his answers and what each card brought to his mind. All he saw was death and killing, like the moths, spiders, and mantis that the images represented. All he saw were things that killed.
It's been a year since he had killed two men. Both guilty and evil. Placing the cards down on the table, he checked his watch. He was late. Getting up, he grabbed his keys and left the apartment.
Mr. Cornelius, a man who had been charged with numerous sex crimes including rape of a young girl, a child, had done time in prison but had recently been released. Since then, he went right back to what he knew: sex and drugs.
He had been following him for a few days now. Familiarizing himself with his habits and his routine. Where he worked, lived, who he saw, and how he acted. He kept notes of everything, like studying a new species of insect. Documentation was done so as not to make a mistake. He couldn't afford mistakes.
The first two men he killed were easy. Father Thomas hadn't been expecting it, but he knew him. It was easy to walk right into his room, pull a knife, and kill him. Samuel Reitz was also easy. He had made sure he was in the bar and then laid in wait for him to leave. Making sure they were alone in the parking lot, he walked right up behind him and cut his throat.
Mr. Cornelius would be harder. He was hardly ever alone except for in his room at the hotel where he stayed. Currently he was at work as a line cook at a diner. Getting into his car, he drove to his diner, sat down the street from it, and waited. He had to be patient. And like the spider, put his web in the optimal position.
The hotel. That was where he needed to place his trap. Starting the car, he turned on the radio as he drove to the hotel. It took nearly ten minutes to get there due to traffic and Led Zeppelin's newest single "Kashmir" played the entire drive. The music, the lyrics filled his head as he parked his '69 Camaro and got out and headed into the hotel.
~"All I see turns to brown
As the sun burns the ground—"~
Using his credit card, he slid it between the door and doorframe, moving the card back-and-forth, getting it between the latch and the hole–The door opened as he pushed against it. Entering into the room, he shut the door behind him and pocketed his credit card into his suit jacket pocket. He kept his wallet in his car, not wanting to accidentally lose it. All he had on him was the card and the scalpel, and the gloves that he put on to cover his hands.
Walking around the room, he took in everything. It was small; only the main room and a bathroom, and a small closet. The bed was unmade, there was still steam in the bathroom from the shower. There were no clothes hanging in the closet as they were all stuffed into the suitcase under the bed. Between the mattress and box spring, he found the children's underwear and polaroid pictures. Looking at the pictures, he felt the anger build up in his chest. Putting everything back where he found them, he continued to check the rest of the room. There was beer in the minifridge, porn magazines and videos in the nightstand next to the bed along with several sex items and condoms. Shutting the drawer, he moved the thick blackout curtains aside and looked out onto the balcony. On the deck were cigarette butts and beer cans.
Mr. Cornelius liked to drink and smoke on the balcony after he came home from work. He'd seen him out there a few times, leaning on the railing smoking and drinking as he watched from the sidewalk below in the shadows of the palm trees and the building next door. As he peered outside the balcony and looked over the city, he envisioned Mr. Cornelius's death in his mind. How it was going to happen. Where he would lie in wait, imagining Cornelius walking into the room, using the bathroom or shower after working in the kitchen all day into the night. Grabbing a beer and heading to the balcony.
And as he opened the sliding door to step outside, he'd be waiting.
~"And my eyes fill with sand
As I scan this wasted land—"~
He had envisioned it, planned for it, but nothing prepared him for the actual act of doing it. There was no hesitation the moment the sliding door slid open from seeing the spot on his target, the neck, and the swinging of his hand around that held the scalpel. Blood didn't spray out, it spilled, meaning he hadn't hit the carotid artery. It also wasn't that deep as he misjudged the distance.
Cornelius jumped back into the room, hand on his neck as he threw the beer can at him. It hit him against his arms as he blocked it from hitting his face. Having no other choice, he rushed into the room Cornelius tried to get away or to get something to use as a weapon as the blood continued to seep out of his neck onto his shirt and floor.
They both became desperate men: one the prey the other the predator. He stabbed Cornelius in his side, between the second and third rib as he jabbed an elbow into his face, knocking him backwards. Coming back, he felt the anger rush threw him as he nearly tackled him to the floor as he reached for the phone. The only good thing that came from the initial slice across his throat was that it was hard for Cornelious to scream as jabbed the scalpel into his thigh, right into the femoral artery and yanked down hard. He felt the warmth of the blood against his hand as he panted on top of him, resting his head against his back as it raised and fell with his breathing. Then it stopped rising and falling as he felt the body slack under him and still.
Dead. Mr. Cornelius was dead. Closing his eyes, he breathed out as he felt a familiar feeling rise up inside him for a moment before it faded. But while it was there, while he felt it, it felt good. He had done good. An evil man had been killed.
~"Try to find, try to find the way I feel—"~
And he felt…He felt alive. The warmth of the blood on his hand. The pounding of his heart. Life and death. His life for the death of Mr. Cornelius. Balance.
That was all he needed.
That, and time to clean up the crime scene and to take his pictures.
~"Oh, pilot of the storm who leaves no trace
Like sorts inside a dream
Leave the path that led me to that place—"~
As he cleaned up, staged the body, and took the pictures, his mind went over every mistake he'd made. His clothes had blood on them. That was a mistake. He should have incapacitated Cornelius first. Another mistake. Cornelius could have gotten away, or injured him, or killed him. He wasn't a fighter despite his build. It just wasn't in him. He was a thinker. He needed to outsmart his prey, not stoop to their level.
There were many ways to incapacitate someone, many different methods. He had to find one that worked for him. He also couldn't keep leaving bodies out to be found. They might realize a pattern or that they had a serial killer. He couldn't be caught, especially since he wanted to do that again.
~"Yellow desert stream
My Shangri-la beneath the summer moon
I will return again—"~
Incapacitate and then take to a different location to kill, and then put them elsewhere to dispose of. Either in the ground, or…He could fund his own body farm. That would be perfect. He knew exactly how to forge the documentation. All the papers he needed were in the coroner's office.
Focusing his camera on Mr. Cornelius after he adjusted the lighting in the room, and positioned his body how he wanted, he took his pictures. Then he showered to clean the blood off his body and then bleached the tub and cleaned the bathroom. He changed into some of the clothes in the suitcase under the bed. He would have to burn his clothes. He couldn't leave any evidence behind. It all had to go.
~"As the dust that floats high in June
We're moving through Kashmir."~
He arrived home late and tossed his keys down on his desk as he passed by it on the way to the kitchen. Grabbing a beer out of the refrigerator, he used the bottle cap opener to open it as he had a noise coming from Adam's room. They were voices. Adam and someone else, a girl. He realized what he was hearing and immediately went into his bedroom and shut the door. He didn't need to hear two people having sex.
In the morning, as he sat at his desk drinking coffee and reading a book, Adam walked out of his bedroom followed by Pamela. On seeing her, his mouth went dry as she blushed and looked away from him. Adam didn't say anything as he got them both a glass of water, but his eyes kept looking over at him with something on his face like…guilt or something. It took him a moment to look away from the two of them as he stared at the book in his hands as the words blurred. Adam and Pamela had had sex last night.
He thought she liked him?
Pamela spotted the book he was reading and asked, "Thoreau?"
He wasn't sure what he was supposed to be feeling seeing them together after he'd thought she liked him, and after questioning whether love was obtainable. Was this his answer? Despite buying her gifts, trying to spend time with her, she had slept with Adam.
He thought about that as he realized that he didn't care. He wanted to be alone.
Answer: Love wasn't obtainable. Not for him.
He didn't want it.
Finally he was able to focus on the words once again. Reading out loud, he told her, "I would rather sit on a pumpkin and have it all to myself, than be crowded on a velvet cushion." Glancing over at her, he said as a way to explain their dynamic and his answer, "You were alone on a cushion as well, but you wanted someone to sit next to you. When I tried…" His mind raced to a nursery rhyme as he told her, "Along came a spider who sat down beside her...and scared Miss Muffet away?"
Pamela wrinkled her head in confusion. "You're a spider?"
He remembered the title of the first part of Sheldon Kopp's book that he'd given her. It was called: Take from No Man His Song. He knew his song. He just had to find the other person that heard it. "If I am, then…only another spider can hear my love song. That's not you."
Pamela leaned on the counter as she told him, "Do you know why it's not me, Gil? Or anyone else? You're creepy, you're weird, and you love bugs and insects more than people."
"Bugs are insects," he said, which caused her to roll her eyes at him. She went back into Adam's room and shut the door. Looking over at his roommate, he worked his jaw as he told Adam with great restraint, "I'm moving."
Maybe he was a little bitter about the whole thing. Either way, he couldn't stay there anymore. Besides, he needed somewhere more private to live. Away from people.
Adam gapped at him but didn't say anything as he nodded. Then he walked across the floor to his room and disappeared inside the room to be with her.
"Sweet creature!" said the spider, "you're witty and you're wise.
How handsome are your gauzy wings, how brilliant are your eyes!
I have a little looking-glass upon my parlour shelf,
If you'll step in one moment, dear, you shall behold yourself."
"I thank you, gentle sir," she said, "for what you're pleased to say,
And bidding you good morning now, I'll call another day."
1980
Minnesota
He got out of his car and waited for Elizabeth, his date, to do the same. She looked annoyed as she opened the car door, got out, and then shut it while saying sarcastically, "Thanks for getting the door for me."
He looked at her and then at the car door as he said, confused, "I didn't get the door."
Elizabeth sighed heavily as she said, "That's why it was sarcasm."
"Oh," he said as he shook his head. Maybe he should've gotten the door for her? "I'm not, um, used to having a passenger."
They started walking through the parking garage and through the doors into the elevator bank and stairs. As she went to an elevator, he told her, "We can walk. It's only one flight up."
Looking at him as he started walking up the steps, she sighed again and followed as she lifted her dress. The sound of her heels echoed up the stairwell. Opening the door, he held it for her, realizing that not getting the door for her was a mistake he wouldn't make again.
She walked past him and into the lobby. "You brought me to an art museum," she said as she looked over at him. "I thought you were taking me to dinner."
"After the museum. We're in luck," he told her as he pointed to the sign on display for the exhibit on the second floor. "The photography of Ansel Adams, the landscape photographer and environmentalist, is being displayed here for the next month." As they started up the steps, he told her, "He won the Presidential Medal of Freedom this year and so his photographs are making a nationwide tour. He's known for his black-and-white images of the American West. He helped found Group f/64, an association of photographers advocating "pure" photography which favors sharp focus and the use of the full tonal range of a photograph. Ansel, along with Fred Archer, developed an exacting system of image-making called the Zone System, which is a method of achieving a desired final print through a deeply technical understanding of how tonal range is recorded and developed during exposure, negative development, and printing. The clarity and depth of the images are a hallmark of his photography."
They entered the exhibit, and he was immediately drawn over to the photograph display on the far wall. He took it all in: the sharp tones, the depth, the clarity. It was stunning.
"Black-and-white photography can be manipulated to produce a wide range of bold and expressive tones which is constricted by the rigidity of the color process," he was saying as his eyes focused solely on the pictures and not the woman next to him. "And after seeing his photos for myself, it's no wonder he preferred black-and-white photography. He's an inspiration, especially to an amateur photographer like myself."
Elizabeth was staring at him for a long moment once he got done explaining to her about the famous photographer, who was his favorite photographer. But first she said, "That's the most I've heard you talk about anything other than your job in the past five months." Then she said, "You're a photographer? What'd you take pictures of?"
He looked at the photograph labeled "The Tetons and the Snake River (1942)", he thought about how to answer her truthfully without lying. "In my work," he said, "Post-Mortem photography. Memento Mori. In the nineteenth century, photos of dead loved ones were a popular keepsake. Death remembered. One last look."
Her eyes widened as she said, "You like taking pictures of dead people?"
Glancing away, back to the pictures on display, he said simply, "I do."
She was giving him an odd look right before she told him, "I-I, uh, I think I should be getting home now."
"Are you sure?" he asked in confusion, and disappointment. "We just got here."
"Yeah," she hesitantly said, "I'm pretty sure."
He stared at her for a long moment in confusion. They just arrived and he didn't want to leave, but she was free to go. Problem was he had driven her. She had no ride home. The solution was-...Giving a nod, he said, "Okay." He walked out with her but didn't go to the parking garage. Instead, he went out the front door and hailed a taxi.
"What're you doing?"
"Getting you a cab home. You want to leave; I don't," he told her as a taxi pulled up beside him at the curb. He gave the driver Elizabeth's address and asked how much it'd cost.
The driver told him, "About thirty dollars."
He pulled out his wallet, took out a fifty, and handed it to the driver before opening the backdoor for her. She stared back at him in disbelief but shook her head as she got into the taxi.
He spent hours at the museum; admiring the photography and talking to the docent and curator who oversaw the exhibit. Then he got dinner at a restaurant, the restaurant he'd had a reservation for two at that became a table for one and didn't give any thought to Elizabeth for the rest of the night.
Back at work, however, and for a month straight, he apologized every time he had to speak to Elizabeth. It wasn't because he was sorry, he wasn't, it was because she kept giving him a weird look as if she couldn't trust him anymore. The last thing he needed was someone taking a special interest in his personal life. All because he tried to date.
He didn't do much dating after that; he had no interest. Whatever infatuation that did suddenly rise up inside him from time to time was very few and far between. Fleeting moments of longing for a connection with someone else, always intellectually and never physically, seem to only exist for a short time. Colleagues in the same field, or who he met on the job as he learned all he could about everything, satisfied him until they no longer could.
The spider turned him round about, and went into his den,
For well he knew, the silly fly would soon come back again:
So he wove a subtle web, in a little corner, sly,
And set his table ready, to dine upon the fly.
Then he went out to his door again, and merrily did sing,
"Come hither, hither, pretty fly, with the pearl and silver wing;
Your robes are green and purple-there's a crest upon your head;
Your eyes are like the diamond bright, but mine are dull as lead."
It was cold. Minnesota in the winter was a bitch. He was from California; he hadn't seen snow until he went to Chicago, Illinois. The bitter wind that came in from Lake Michigan had taken his breath away and nearly froze him to death the first winter he'd spent there. But for some reason, Minnesota was far worse. It had to be the proximity to Canada, along with the fact that it was January, and that he was on a frozen lake that caused it to feel so much colder.
The ice under his feet was thick, the snow covering the ice kept him from slipping as he pulled behind him the sled. It was the time of year for ice fishing. Holes were cut through the ice, and ice houses-or ice shanty's as some called them-were put out on the lake, over the holes or near them, as people came from all around to fish in the freezing cold. A colleague of his, Dr. Brian Miller, had let him rent from him for the weekend his ice house. Since he'd never been ice fishing before, and this was his first time in Minnesota, Dr. Miller was eager to let him experience the joy of fishing on a frozen lake.
As he neared the ice house, the moon high above him as he arrived during the night, his legs started to strain as the snow started to pack around the blades of the sled. He was also getting tired. It had been a far walk and the body in the body bag that he'd taken from the coroner's office a few nights ago was getting heavy.
He'd made a mistake. One he was determined to correct. He should have never tried to bury the body in the frozen ground. He hadn't been able to bury it deep enough. It had been found. Stealing it from the M.E's office had been the easy part. He knew when they had their shift change; he knew when they took their breaks and who went outside to smoke and who snuck their girlfriend into their office for a quickie. Which-...Who got off in a building full of dead bodies?
The body bag was on the bottom of the sled, on top of the bag was a sleeping bag and pillow, a cooler full of food, water, instant coffee and a bottle of whiskey, an army cot, a bag with his clothes for the next two days, a flashlight, cooking supplies and propane tanks, and fishing gear. Dr. Miller told him the ice house was bare on the inside except for a counter, foldable table and chair, and a cabinet. Everything else he had to bring with him. Coming to a stop in front of the ice house, he opened the door and walked inside with the sled behind him and shut the door. He also had a saw, a knife, a propane flame torch, and his scalpel.
He had no intention of actually fishing, he had no fish bait except for what was on the body. He wondered if he could catch anything with human organs and muscle. Didn't hurt to try, he thought as he set up the inside of the ice house with his gear before sitting down in the chair. Grabbing the scalpel, he unzipped the body bag. What he didn't cut up and out, he would cut off and send it to the bottom of the lake.
Alas, alas! how very soon this silly little fly,
Hearing his wily, flattering words, came slowly flitting by;
With buzzing wings she hung aloft, then near and nearer drew,
Thinking only of her brilliant eyes, and green and purple hue:—
Thinking only of her crested head, poor foolish thing!—At last
Up jumped the cunning spider, and fiercely held her fast.
1989
Los Angeles
Sitting in his car, he stared at the lights inside the restaurant through the windows covered partly with maroon colored drapes, the neon lights that illuminated "Rosa's Diner", and checked the time on the clock on the dashboard. He had eight minutes to make up his mind. Eight minutes to decide what he wanted to do about her. About her smile, and her eyes, and the way it messed with his mind.
It confused him. She confused him. She also interested him in a way that no other woman ever had. They barely spoke. He hardly spoke, while she always tried to make conversation. It was hard to find the right words around her. He didn't want to scare her away like he seemed to always do. He was surprised by that. Normally, he wouldn't care if he did. He even found it amusing.
She was different. He felt something inside his chest, thought something in his mind that he never thought before: he liked her. He really liked her. She made him ask that question again; one that he'd given up on a long time ago.
Was love obtainable?
She made him want to try. This wasn't the first time he'd waited outside where she was as he tried to figure out what to do.
He followed the bus for blocks and then finally he saw her step off it onto the sidewalk. She walked down Hyde Park Boulevard and took a right on West Avenue a few blocks to a white building that housed apartments. She used a key to open the door to the first door on the corner and walked in. The blinds to the first floor were open, a cat in the window, but no light came on. No door from the hallway opened. Looking up to the second floor, he saw a flash of light through the blinds before it was gone. A flicking of blue and white from a television. There was an apartment number in the window "6517 ½ ". The bottom apartment was "6517".
Parking across the street, next to a convenience store and a coin laundry, he turned off the engine as he looked away. He had an hour before he had to be at work. It was a twenty-minute drive from the apartment. He had time. Time to do what, he didn't know. He had no idea what he was doing. Did he just want to see where she lived?
He wasn't planning on going up to her apartment or talking to her. There were other cars on the street, and he wondered if any of them belonged to a boyfriend. Was that why he was there? Did he want to know if she had a boyfriend? He could have just asked her. But he'd been having a hard time working his way up to talking to her. He didn't know what to say to her. Whenever he opened his mouth around women, he drove them away. He didn't want to drive her away.
Closing his eyes, he shook his head at himself. This wasn't rational. This was highly irrational. What was he even doing there? He heard that love made people do stupid things, but he wasn't in love with Sara. So, was he just being stupid?
Looking over at the convenience store that was open 24-hours, he grabbed the police radio he always kept in his car and got out. He clipped the radio to his belt and walked inside. As he listened to the radio, he grabbed a bottle of water, filled up a cup with coffee, then walked up to the counter to pay.
He was just getting back into his car when the call came in over the radio. A domestic disturbance call from a neighbor; address was 6517 ½ West Avenue. Jerking his head around, he looked at the window to the apartment as he realized that was Sara's apartment. Picking up the radio, he informed them that he was in the area and on scene.
In the trunk of his car was his gun; the one the LAPD insisted that all members wore, even crime scene investigators. He pulled his gun, shut the trunk lid, and headed across the street. The downstairs neighbor who reported the disturbance opened the door for him as he showed her his CSI ID. He wasn't a cop, and he heard the responding unit telling him to wait for them to arrive before approaching the scene as police sirens blared in the distance. They weren't far.
He was already up the stairs, gun at the ready in case he had to shoot the abusive boyfriend. Upon seeing the door, he slowed his steps as he listened. All he heard was the television, the approaching police sirens, and the woman downstairs.
"I heard fighting. They get loud sometimes but this time it scared me and my poor cat. They were screaming so loud I heard it over the television. Then I heard glass break before it got real quiet. That's what scared me the most. The silence. Something's wrong, I know it."
The police siren stopped as he saw the flashing lights out the window at the end of the hallway. Two police officers of the Los Angeles Police Department rushed through the first-floor door as he looked over the side of the stairs. One of them, Officer Degan, spotted him as he called out, "Damn it, Grissom! I said to wait!"
"I am waiting," he told Officer Degan. His partner was a rookie, Officer Jefferson, and he looked nervous. Domestic calls were sometimes the hardest calls to respond to. Someone behind the door could have a gun. Or the one who was initially the victim could easily suddenly turn and become the perpetrator.
He was reminded again how love causes people to do irrational things.
Officer Degan banged on the door as he stood off to the side behind Officer Jefferson. The two cops would enter the apartment first. Degan gave a nod to Jefferson before he busted through the door, breaking the lock and chain. Degan was a big guy, and the locks didn't stand a chance. Once they entered to clear the apartment, he followed behind and immediately saw the two people on the floor.
Holstering his weapon, he first checked Sara who was sitting against the far wall, dazed and barely conscious. Her face was cut in several locations from the blows and bruising was starting to form under the red blotches. The man on the floor had no pulse and his head was busted open, blood pooling on the carpet under him. Next to his head, on the floor, a round stone dolphin statue with blood covering it.
First hit was free; there wouldn't have been any blood or cast off. She had to have hit him multiple times. He watched as her eyelids fluttered a few times against her brown eyes before she passed out. Upon hearing the sound of the ambulance arriving, he picked Sara up into his arms and started to carry her out.
He heard Officer Degan behind him, saying, "Grissom–"
"The scene is compromised enough. He's dead, she isn't. I'm taking her down to the ambulance." He left the apartment and was down the stairs and out the front door as the medics were walking toward him with a stretcher. He placed her down on top of it as he told them, "Dead male is still upstairs. I'll notify the coroner."
They got her into the ambulance just as he spotted his supervisor's car pulling up. Mitchell looked pissed as hell when he saw him. "What the hell, Grissom?! You're responding to calls on your own now!"
He sighed as he pointed to his car parked down by the convenience store as he told him, "I was on my way into work. Stopped here at the convenience store; bought water and a coffee and had just gotten back into my car when the call came in. What was I supposed to do? Leave the scene? I radioed it in," he told him. "Told them I was on location."
Mitchell sighed and shook his head at him as he looked over at the building as he started towards it with his field kit in hand. "This is Hyde Park. You live on the other side of the city."
He rubbed his head as he told him, "I was in the neighborhood."
"Hey, uh, what's her name?"
He glared at Mitchell as he shook his head. "There's this diner a few blocks away that I frequent before work—"
"Like I said, what's her name?" Mitchell asked again, this time more amused.
Not answering that, he went to follow him inside when Mitchell stopped him with a hand to his chest. "Oh, no, I'm working the scene. How 'bout you go to the hospital. Get pictures and collect the evidence off her. Detective Logan will meet you there."
He could do that. It'd let him see Sara and make sure she was okay. Mitchell had been right. There was a "her" that caused him to frequent a diner miles away from where he lived. And he was in the neighborhood, across the street, because of her. There was no way he was going to tell him that she was the victim and that he was, that he had, followed her from the restaurant. Mitchell would think that he was a stalker or something.
He gave a nod as he started for his car and said, "You'll need my shoes." He went to his trunk and opened it. He always kept extra clothes and shoes in his car, just in case. After changing shoes, he dropped the ones he'd wore in the apartment into the evidence bag Mitchell produced. As he sat on the edge of the trunk and tied his shoes, he told him, "First blush, self-defense. He attacked her and she fought back."
Mitchell nodded before asking, "Touch anything?"
He shook his head. "I grabbed her up and carried her out to the ambulance. Figured you didn't want to have to also collect the medics shoes."
"That was considerate," Mitchell sarcastically said as he started towards the building. "You learn anything different–"
"I'll let you know," he finished for him. Getting into his car, he started it and drove away from the scene to the hospital.
Checking the clock, he had five minutes. He had to do something; make a decision. Her ex-boyfriend, the one she'd killed, had been a mechanic. Did she learn anything from him? What did she like? Where could he take her? He knew where he wanted to go and what he wanted to do. He could take her there and see how she reacted. He could listen to her and learn about how she thought. How she confused him.
Four minutes. Letting out a breath, he popped the hood to his car as he got out of the driver's seat. Lifting the hood, he pulled out the flashlight from his pocket as he shined it over the engine and the battery. Reaching over, he adjusted the wire he'd tightened a few days ago, loosening it.
What was he doing? This was how he captured his prey, not the woman he liked.
"OM617 engine, one of the most reliable engines ever produced. What did you do to it?" she asked from behind him.
He straightened and looked over his shoulder at her. She was right on time. She always got off at 10:30 on Tuesday nights and took roughly ten minutes to leave the restaurant after she was off. And she knew what engine was in his car, he was impressed. "I didn't do anything. It won't start."
"And you thought shedding some light on it would help?" He smirked at her sarcasm and flashed the light in her eyes, causing her to push the flashlight away. He chuckled as she asked, "Did you check the battery connection?"
He glanced back at her and said, "It's not the battery. I tightened the wires a few days ago when it gave me the same problem."
She smiled. That smile that made his head forget what it was thinking every time she did it. "Go try starting it. I want to hear it."
He did as he was told. Getting into the driver's seat, he tried to start it, but it wouldn't turn over. He heard the clicking noise and knew what the problem was but wondered if she knew what the problem was. After a moment, she told him, "Try it now." He turned the ignition key and the diesel engine roared to life. As he got out, he saw her amused smirk as she told him, "You didn't check the battery connection. The positive wire's loose. You might want to tighten that."
"Thought I did, but...I guess I only thought about doing it and forgot to actually do it." He closed the hood as he told her, "Wouldn't be the first time. Thank you."
"Anytime," she went to walk toward the bus stop when he called out.
"Hey, uh, Sara, what are you doing this weekend?"
At seeing her stop and turn around, his heart nearly quickened, especially when he saw the smile on her face. The way her eyes lit up. She took a step forward as she told him, "Well, normally I work on weekends, but I have this really amazing customer, kind-of odd though, who's been tipping me a lot of money, so..."
She thought he was odd? "You think I'm odd?" he asked.
She nearly blushed as she laughed. "I used to think you were creepy. Believe me, odd is an improvement."
"Good, then you might say yes if I ask you to go somewhere with me," he said as he stuffed his hands into his pants pocket as he approached her. He really didn't want to freak her out.
"Depends on where you're going."
"Santa Cruz," he told her as he closed the distance between them. "There's a wooden roller coaster, The Giant Dipper, that I want to ride. It's a long drive and we'll have to stay overnight."
"You want to take me to Santa Cruz so you can ride a roller coaster?"
Okay, that was an odd thing to ask someone, but he really wanted to go and he really wanted to take her with him. It would give them a chance to get to know one another. To…talk. "Is that okay?"
"Are you kidding? Road trip. I'm in," she said with a smile.
Seeing her smile, he couldn't help but smile along with her. "Good. I, um, I-" he reached into his inside jacket pocket and pulled out a pen. He patted the other pocket for the card with his name and office number on it. Where was the card? "I thought I had a card-"
She grabbed the pen out of his hand and took out an order pad from her apron as she asked, "What's your number?" Looking up at him, she said, "You seem shocked."
He was shocked. Telling her honestly, "I've never had anyone ask for my number before," he tried to focus on his phone number. It was hard to focus when she looked at him like that.
"No other girls that you thought you were in love with?"
He smirked as he told her, "I don't make the same mistake twice." Once he made a mistake, he learned from them and tried to never make them again.
Question: Was she a mistake? Was this a mistake?
He hoped not. Then, he told her his phone number.
"But you've dated others since, right?" she asked once she was done writing down his number. And then she wrote down hers.
"Took a girl out on a date once in Minnesota, but…"Alas, poor Yorick". It's from Shakespeare. It's, uh-"
"It's from Hamlet and refers to the fleeting nature of human life," she told him as she put his pen back into his inside jacket pocket.
If she hadn't already made his head spin and heart plummet, then that revelation would have done the trick. The more they talked, the more she stimulated his thoughts. The more she made him want to get to know her. And why was she touching him so much? "You read Shakespeare?"
"I do. Nice to meet a man who also enjoys the classics. Did she die? The woman you went on a date with?"
As he remembered the date he had with Elizabeth in Minnesota, he told her, "She didn't. The date did. It was a horrible death. I apologized to her for about a month afterwards."
"Crash and burn, huh?" she said as she tore off the sheet, where her number was written, and handed it to him.
"You have no idea." He looked at the number. "So, I'll call you Saturday morning?" he asked, hopefully.
"You know what, it's a six-hour drive, and if you're okay with driving all night, you can pick me up Friday evening."
That made more sense. Why didn't he think of that? Because she smiled, and he had forgotten what he was thinking, that was why. "Good thinking," he said with a small smile as he got into his car. "I'll see you Friday."
"Yes, you will," she told him before turning to walk to the bus stop.
He watched her walk away as he sat in his car. Letting out a breath, he closed his eyes and then opened them to look at the phone number. He'd gotten a girl's phone number. There was a first time for everything.
Thinking about all the things they could do in northern California, he was reminded of the Monarch butterfly grove and wondered if she liked butterflies. He would have to find out.
He dragged her up his winding stair, into his dismal den,
Within his little parlour—but she ne'er came out again!
—And now, dear little children, who may this story read,
To idle, silly, flattering words, I pray you ne'er give heed:
Unto an evil counsellor, close heart, and ear, and eye,
And take a lesson from this tale, of the Spider and the Fly.
2011
Pacific Ocean
"There's a great mammal known as the 52-hertz whale. All year, he practices his love song for the female. Travels thousands of miles to find her. But when he finally gets the chance to serenade her, she doesn't give him a call back. Why? His love ballad is sung at 52 hertz, a sonic signature one note higher than the lowest sound of a tuba. The average female hears at 10 to 15 hertz. So, she never hears his song. They call him the lonely whale. And year after year, for a hundred years, he works on a new love song and never, ever gets a call back. Eventually, he dies off, forever alone."
"That's heartbreaking," he heard her say with a sadness in her voice.
He looked up at Sara from the sketch he'd been drawing. She was sitting across from him at the table by the starboard side windows, reading over her research papers that she'd written on the penguins on the Galapagos Islands. Turning his sketchpad around, he showed her the whale that he'd drawn. She looked up at it; her eyes taking in the shading that created depth.
A soft smile appeared on her face as she told him, "I like the shading. It's beautiful."
"No one ever heard my love song either. I thought I was destined to travel alone my whole life, like the 52-hertz whale…Then, there you were." He saw her smile widened as she looked up into his eyes.
He didn't know how it happened, or who caught who. Did he catch her, or did she catch him? It didn't matter; they had caught each other, and he knew that he would never let her go.
"Grissom." The sound of his name woke him from his musings as he heard her ask him again, "Why is Sara here and not with you?"
He thought about why he and Sara were apart as the boat rocked slightly in the water. The tide was coming in. Once he formed an answer, he said, "Have you ever read Moby Dick? Ahab was obsessed with killing the white whale that had crippled him, and that obsession drove him to madness. In the end, he lost everything. His ship and his life. Melville wrote: "Yielding up all his thoughts and fancies to his one supreme purpose." Ahab had let his mind's guiding power be usurped by the "sheer inveteracy" of a will driven by "one unachieved revengeful desire"...His idée fixe. French for fixed idea, which means an idea or desire that dominates the mind; an obsession."
"You think you've become obsessed, and because of that, you lost everything. Your job and your life here, and now your marriage. All you have left is your ship."
"Technically, it's a boat," he said as he looked around the inside of the cabin.
Heather smiled; it was in her voice. "And me. You still have me, and...I will help you."
"I didn't ask for your help."
"Yes, you did. Why else would you call me?"
He nearly smiled. She knew him too well. "I saw that Dr. Langston is having a book signing for my autobiography. If you don't mind, I'd love to get a copy."
"I can pick one up for you," she told him.
"Thank you. I, uh...I have to go. I'm-" he felt a bump against the side of the boat that wasn't from the ebbing waves, "having friends over for dinner."
"Friends?"
"Have a good night, Heather."
He turned off the phone as he stood and went out onto the deck. Around the boat was nothing but water. This far out, all he saw were stars, the moon, and water. No land in sight. There was a breeze upon the water, blowing in the clouds he saw gathering on the horizon. It was supposed to storm later this evening. Hanging from the hook normally reserved for nets and a shark cage, was a man: Fernándo Valenzuela.
"You know," he said as he looked up at Valenzuela, "you have the same name as a former Los Angeles Dodgers baseball player? Fernándo Valenzuela was notable for his unorthodox windup and was one of a small number of pitchers who threw a screwball regularly in his pitching rotation. He made his debut in 1980, by 1981, "Fernandomania" was in full effect. He became a superstar. He won his first eight starts, five of which were shutouts. Valenzuela finished the season with a record of 13–7 and had a 2.48 ERA. It was a short season due to a player's strike. Anyway, he became the first, and to date, the only player to win both Cy Young and Rookie of the Year awards in the same season. Even saw him pitch in person a few times. He finished his career as a 6-time All-Star, World Series champion-"
"¡Detener! ¿Te detendrás?!" Valenzuela yelled at him, but his eyes weren't looking at him as he yelled. He was looking down at the water.
In the ocean water below where Valenzuela was hanging, there were sharks. Two of them. One of them had hit the side of his boat. He'd left the knife wound to Valenzuela's gut open and untreated; the blood had been dropping into the water. The sharks could smell it, taste it, and now they wanted Valenzuela for dinner. The body was too far up in the air for them to reach, but they weren't going to give up and leave anytime soon.
"I tell you what, Mr. Valenzuela, I'll stop, but first you have to tell me who, what, when and where. And I promise, I won't let the sharks kill you. And tell me in English, por favor. I don't want anything lost in translation." Mr. Valenzuela knew what and who he was asking about, having already tried to question him before hanging up to dry above the shark infested waters.
Valenzuela was involved in human sex trafficking and he wanted his boss's name, where he could find him, and where the girls that were being smuggled were located.
Valenzuela finally looked at him with eyes full of fear, and relief, as he told him, "Tony Mendoza. He owns club Blackout. He's there every night."
"And the shipments?"
"Container ship; Andrea Rosetta. Isla de Cedros."
Isla de Cedros was located in the Mexican state of Baja. He knew that the shipping port there was primarily used for salt farming exports which were shipped to Asia. They must have been using that as a cover. It was smart. Baja was also close to the United States, which limited the amount of travel time. But Isla de Cedros was an island just west of the Baja. That would mean that they could put the boys and girls being trafficked on a boat to take up the coast to the US, or bring them from the US, or they could take them directly over to Mexico or on a ship to Asia. It was the central point.
It was also limited. Once on the island, you had nowhere to escape to.
"Por favor, señor, let me go!" Valenzuela was pleading with him.
"La prueba."
"Por favor–"
"La prueba," he stressed as a shark breached the surface of the water, its jaws snapping under the feet of the hanging man.
Valenzuela screamed as he tried to pull his legs up to his chest and away from the 300 tiny sharp teeth that tried to latch onto them.
On seeing the fear in Valenzuela, he told him, "Sharks don't normally breach, although they can if they were to expel enough energy to propel themselves out of the water. If enough energy is used, and they get up to speed, sharks can leap up to ten feet in the air. You're about maybe six feet above the water." Once Valenzuela's eyes were on him, he asked again, "La prueba. I know you have some form of evidence to use as an out. Everyone has an out. You kept something for blackmail. Or, to keep you out of prison. Something to offer to the federales."
Valenzuela screamed again but this time out of anger and frustration as he closed his eyes. "Llave. Tengo una–"
"En inglés por favor."
"I have a key. On the chain you took off me. There's a box–"
"At a bank?"
"No, my house. Behind the wall in the closet. There you find evidence of what I say is true. Now, please, please let me go."
He gave a nod as he said, "I didn't say anything about letting you go, Mr. Valenzuela. What I said was that I won't let the sharks kill you." He saw his eyes go wide in fear as he grabbed the line. Picking up the knife, he stabbed it into his femoral artery then yanked it out as blood gushed from the wound and into the ocean water below. "They still have to eat," he said as unhooked the line and watched as Valenzuela's body dropped into the water where the sharks ripped it apart.
TBC...
Disclaimer poem used: "The Spider and the Fly" by Mary Howitt.
Disclaimer songs used/mentioned: "Something" by The Beatles. "Kashmir" by Led Zeppelin.