Spiders in the Grove Page 3

  Exiting the room through a side door, the woman takes me outside onto a cobblestone patio surrounding an extravagant pool with sparkling purple and red water, lit up by colored underwater lights. She gestures at a chair, and I sit; the slave girl following us already knows what’s expected of her and she walks over to a wet bar and pours two drinks.

  “I’m going to get right to it,” the woman begins; she sits elegantly with her long legs crossed, her back straight, resting against the chair. She reaches out and takes a small glass of whiskey from the girl’s hand. “I’m sick of doing this shit myself—”

  “Can you at least tell me your name first?” I interrupt.

  The woman pulls the glass away from her lips before taking a sip; I can tell she’s still struggling with whether she likes my defiant personality—she’s probably beaten, even killed, girls for much less. But the fact that I’m still alive is proof enough she has no intentions of killing me. She wants something. And I’m prepared to play along for as long as I have to, to make her believe she’s going to get it.

  She smiles. “Cesara,” she answers, and puts her lips to the glass; her eyes follow mine with interest and intrigue.

  I take the second glass of whiskey from the slave girl and do the same, making sure Cesara sees the same interest and intrigue in my eyes.

  She sets her glass on a patio table.

  “The man who runs this place,” she continues, and my ears perk up, and my heart pounds, “who owns it and a hundred other compounds in this state, is a cruel, heartless bastard. There’s one just like him in Arizona. White man. Pretends he hates Mexicans—and I guess he does—but like so many Americans, he’s a hypocrite. While he pushes his anti-immigrant agenda in Americas face, behind their backs he’s the one making sure the coyotes get across the border—both ways. Not just getting Mexicans into the United States, but American girls into Mexico, too. It’s a very lucrative business—the girls, the guns, the drug trade—he profits like so many others. And you wouldn’t believe how many compounds there are just like this one, or how many kingpins there are in the United States, like the one who pays me.” She switches legs, crossing the right over the left. “So, just so we’re clear, you’re in a cruel place, yes, but before you judge me, or my people based on stereotypes and devil politicians, you need to get in it your head that your people are just as bad as mine, and where you came from, just as fucking cruel.”

  I nod, and take a sip. “I never thought about it that way,” I say, setting the glass down. “But, honestly, I never really thought about it at all.”

  “That’s the problem with Americans—they don’t think. Not about anybody but themselves. Certainly not for themselves.”

  “Not to be rude,” I say, with a little sarcasm, “but what does that have to do with—”

  “I know, I know,” she cuts in. “I do that sometimes—get sidetracked. The truth is, I wanted to hit you in the mouth when you started with the Mexican rumors shit. I needed to get it off my chest; let you know you’re no better than me; your people are no better than mine are.”

  She sighs. “Anyway, like I was saying, I’m tired of taking care of this place by myself. The governesses are useless—they only care about breaking the girls, and they think they own everything. They’re old, washed-up hags who like to stick their wrinkled fingers in women’s cunts. They’re sick as fuck—as sick as any of the ‘disgusting’ men, as you put it, there are here. But don’t mistake my loathing for having a heart, or anything like that”—she laughs lightly—“I was given this job because I like it. I beat those girls because they deserve it. And I kill them if I have to because that’s just how the world is, and we’re all better off dead, anyway.”

  Wow…OK. Mad at the world much?

  “So, by killing them, you think you’re doing them a favor,” I state unemotionally.

  “That’s exactly what I’m doing.”

  “Then why didn’t you offer me the same courtesy?”

  She smirks, and looks me over with those intrigued brown eyes again.

  “Gold, remember?” she says. “You’re a fearless, cocky bitch, ready and willing to die, but only if it’s your time. And most of all, you’re not Mexican—I don’t work well with them. Mexican women are…what’s the word you used earlier?”—she pinches her mouth on one side and squints her eyes—“…uncivilized—hey, I can talk shit about my own people. But it’s true, they’re loud and reckless and I just don’t get along with them. I’d tell you to ask my sister, but I killed her.” She shrugs.

  “So, you like me because I’m White?” I say. “I hate to tell you this, but White girls are no less savage.”

  Cesara points at me. “True, but again, they’re just better at hiding it.”

  “Maybe it’s just me,” I say, “but I’d rather be around people who don’t hide who they are, that way you know exactly what to expect.” The hidden meaning behind my comment is quite satisfying—too bad I’m the only one of us who knows it.

  Cesara shrugs. “You’re probably right, but what can I say? I like what I like.”

  “OK. So, you want me to work for you, someone you just met—under really messed up circumstances I should point out—and who you were going to have killed. Trusting me would seem reckless. And what exactly do you expect me to do? More importantly, what do I get out of it?”

  She smirks. “That. Right there”—she points at me again—“is how I know you’re perfect for the job. You’re more concerned with what you’ll get, than with what the job entails. And what I can give you, I’m confident will keep you loyal to me.”

  “And that would be?”

  Cesara stands; her black dress, tied with a dangling silk belt around her slim waist, drops just above her knees.

  “We’ll start with ten thousand a month,” she says, and then she paces the cobblestone patio. “After six months, depending on how well you do, we’ll negotiate a raise.”

  I pinch my mouth on one side, contemplating. “Hmm. OK, I admit you have my attention.” Pfft! Ten thousand is pocket change compared to what I make.

  Cesara smiles, walks past me, and I follow her back into the mansion; as always, the same slave girl stays close behind.

  As if the other girls tending to things moments ago know Cesara wants their attention, without demanding it, all stop what they’re doing simultaneously and scurry to the center of the room the moment they hear her voice.

  “These girls,” Cesara begins, “are the product. But not just any product; think of them as blood diamonds”—she glances back at me—“You’ve seen that movie, right?” She doesn’t give me time to answer before turning her attention back on the girls. “People die in the process of getting them here; the diamonds with the purest clarity are worth a lot of money.” She reaches out to one girl the most beautiful of the group, and brushes the back of her fingers across her cheek; the girl never raises her eyes. “Our job is to sort through those brought here by those disgusting men; pick and choose which of them go where, which of them, visually, will attract the wealthiest buyers. Then we send them to the governesses to be broken before they’re brought back to us to be trained.” She motions for me.

  I walk up and stand next to her.

  “A man will pay one million for this girl,” she says with admiration and dollar signs in her eyes. “She’s perfect. In every way”—she glances at my throat—“unblemished; not even a freckle anywhere on her body.” She releases the girl’s chin, turns fully to face me and says, “But beauty means nothing if she isn’t broken and trained properly—it’s our job to make sure that when she walks out on that bidding stage, she’s ready. If she stumbles, if she speaks or raises her eyes or slouches her shoulders or shows emotion, it could be your head.”

  What happened to her use of ’our’ all of a sudden?

  “My head?” I ask.

  Cesara smiles, and nods. Then she walks around the girls, inspecting each of them as she speaks, hardly ever looking at me but speaking only to me.
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  “Of course, I’m not only recruiting you for your companionship,” she says.

  “So, I take it there have been other…colleagues, who’ve worked in the position you intend to put me in? You need somebody to blame and punish if something doesn’t go right.”

  “The world is dark place, Lydia. You have a choice; I can’t force you to do it.”

  “But you’ll kill me if I don’t.”

  “Yes. I’ll kill you if you don’t.”

  I sigh dramatically, look upward at the chandelier dangling from the high ceiling above me, and I pretend to take this all into serious consideration, but she and I both know what my answer will be.

  “All right,” I say. “But I want fifteen thousand a month to start.”

  Cesara grins.

  “Bargaining now? Maybe you shouldn’t push your luck too far?”

  I glance at the million-dollar slave girl. “She slouches a little, if you look at her from this angle.” I point at her bare shoulder. “And if you’ll look closely, you’ll see a scar. Almost unnoticeable, but it’s there.”

  Cesara comes closer and peers in at the spot. When she finally sees it, she straightens her back with a sigh.

  “I really do like you, Lydia,” she says. “OK, fifteen it is.” The grin reappears at her lips. And I see something else in her face, in her eyes, something as faint and as devastating as the scar on the girl’s shoulder. Another obstacle I’ll need to overcome, perhaps? A test of my abilities? An unforeseen scenario? It’s all of these things, I know. I feel it in my gut. Can I do it? Can I do the things I know I will have to do, without feeling guilty?

  I leave the room with Cesara, and my conscience with the slave girls.

  Fredrik

  Dante, my self-proclaimed sidekick, looks like a rat in a suit. I help him with his tie, and affix his cufflinks properly, and smack him across the back for the tenth time when he falls into another slouch. The guy came from back alleys and heroin blowjobs, and there’s only so much I can do with him. But he’ll have to do, because I trust nobody else. I don’t trust Dante, either, but he’s terrified of me, and it would take a lot for him to betray me. I suspect he will someday, but today is not that day.

  “I don’t know, boss,” he says, “I’ve never done anything like this before. What if I screw it up?”

  “With enough money,” I begin, “nobody is going to notice anything else. Don’t worry too much about how to act, just make sure everybody knows how rich you are, and everything else will fall into place.”

  I hear the taxi’s brakes as the driver pulls up in front of the house. One last look at Dante, and I hand him his briefcase. “You only need to remember the few things I told you; all of the information is covered on my end—just don’t forget it on yours.”

  Dante nods nervously.

  “And stop acting like you just shoplifted a box of condoms”—I straighten his tie—“Have a little confidence in yourself; go into this knowing you can do it; be smug, shun people, play the role of a man you’ve always dreamed of being, but never imagined you’d be—this is your chance.”

  He still looks nervous. “But I always wanted to be a painter,” he says thoughtfully.

  Sighing, I lead Dante to the front door.

  “You’ll figure it out,” I tell him. “Ninety-nine-percent of this job is learning-as-you-go. Don’t lose your passport, or anything else in that briefcase. And remember, no matter what happens, don’t interfere. Just report everything back to me.”

  “OK, boss.”

  “Secure server, remember?”

  Dante nods and pats the side of the briefcase where the special cell phone I gave him has been packed away.

  “Hey, boss?”

  “Yeah?”

  “What’s the other one-percent?”

  “Dying, of course.” I smile.

  He swallows.

  Moments later, Dante hops in the taxi and heads to catch his plane.

  I go down into the basement and flip on the light, walk casually through the small space, stepping around old paint cans and dusty antique frames and bloated cans of vegetables. The filthiness combined with how small the room is makes me uncomfortable, but this place was the closest I could find to Izabel’s on such short notice. Apollo Stone had to be relocated, or his sister would have eventually come for him, and I can only deal with one crazy bitch at a time—the serial killer I’m hunting, I’m convinced, is a woman.

  “You’re insane,” Apollo says. He’s strapped to a hospital bed; the only thing he’s able to move are his hands and his feet and his head. “No fucking joke, bruh, you are the sickest sonofabitch I’ve ever had the displeasure of meeting.”

  Pushing the tube on the syringe, two drops of liquid squirt from the end of the needle. I thump the syringe with my middle finger and then stick the needle into his arm.

  Apollo struggles; his hands ball into fists; his fingers tighten and relax. And then they slacken, and he’s out.

  “Perhaps.”

  I set the syringe down, and then set the timer on my watch. For a moment, I get a strange feeling, the kind one feels when eyes are at their back. I look behind me, and toward the small, film-covered window, but I see nothing. Ignoring it, I head back upstairs and lock the basement door from the outside. I grab my briefcase from the kitchen bar, and leave the house to look into some new information regarding the serial killer. I don’t have much time before Apollo wakes up, and that irritates me because I have important things to do. But when Izabel contacted me about watching over him—and keeping it a secret from everyone, even Victor—I couldn’t very well tell her no. I wish I could just kill him—almost broke down and did it a few times—but Apollo is Izabel’s kill, not mine. And he’s not Victor’s, either, no matter how badly Victor wants him and his sister. If he ever discovers I kept this from him, hiding Apollo for Izabel, he might kill me. But I guess I’ll deal with that when the time comes.

  “I’ll meet you there in fifteen minutes,” I tell my contact on the phone. “No feds, understood?”

  My contact agrees, and I hang up, put my car into gear and drive away.

  Initially, the deal was that I work closely with the United States government in helping catch this killer. I agreed to their terms, to all of their stipulations; I told them I would share all information with them regarding this case, tell them my opinions, and give them my valuable advice, because Fredrik Gustavsson, they believe, is the only way they will catch their killer. But I lied. And I’ll continue to lie. The government does value my judgement—they wouldn’t have even considered getting me involved if they didn’t need me, and had no one else to do what I can do. But they also see me as Apollo does: insane and sick. And once I lead them to this killer, I’ll be the one they go after next. So why give them anything?

  I’m only working with them because of what Victor needs: information to help him smoke out the real Vonnegut. When I meet with them, I only pretend to be on their side, for Victor’s sake.

  But their threat to me, and my duty to Faust, are not the biggest reasons I’ve chosen to keep everything to myself and to betray them. I do it because of my own personal interest in this killer; she is an itch under my skin I cannot scratch unless I break it. I want to know why her methods so closely resemble my own. I want to know why she does what she does, if she’s actually trying to get my attention, or if she’s just a darker version of myself and does what she does only because she needs to.

  The answers will come; they will take time, but the most satisfying things in life always take time.

  Kenneth Ware, government employee working for the Special Special Activities Division, and my number one fan apparently, sits across the table from me in the public library. This man, so enamored by the bloodlust of mentally disturbed criminals, is quite extraordinary. I get the feeling he’s just as demented as any serial killer he’s studied; yet he’s capable of refraining from acting upon his own urges. Of course, it bothers me to admit this, but this makes him more
advanced than me; it makes him mentally stronger than me and those demented criminals he hunts and pines over like a teen-aged girl over a baby-faced musician.

  But Mr. Ware, like all men, has a weakness, a chink in his armor: my baby face. And every time I meet with him, I play him like fingers moving smoothly, skillfully over piano keys.

  “So, what new information do you have for me, Mr. Ware?”

  He smiles, and with eager hands he reaches for his briefcase on the table and flips it open. Two seconds later, a file is in front of me.

  “You’re going to love this,” he says, closing the briefcase and sliding it aside.

  I pull the folder closer, but wait before opening it; I don’t want to appear as eager as he does—it’s such a vulnerable look.

  Instead of elaborating, it’s apparent he just wants me to open the file already. And I guess I better, or else he’s going to have an anxiety attack over there caused by the anticipation from waiting too long.

  Placing two fingers into the folder, I open it slowly. There are no photos this time, no gruesome crime scenes; just a bunch of text, with a few small paragraphs here and there in bold font. I skim the information at first, but when I see a few keywords sticking out at me like bright red blood on a sterile-white floor—hair sample, DNA, female—I read everything word-for-word instead. Because I had a feeling this day might come; good thing I prepared for it in advance.

  When I’m finished, I close the folder and look at Ware, unimpressed.

  “It’s a possibility,” I say, “but doubtful.”

  Ware blinks. “Doubtful?” His excitement turns to disappointment. “But it’s all right here”—he gestures at the file—“and it’s the biggest break in this case I’ve seen in ten years. How can you brush off the theory so easily without giving it a chance?” He is truly beside himself over this.

  Because you’re getting too close, Mr. Ware, and I can’t have that.