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  • The Spider Pt. 08

The Spider Pt. 08

12

John looked out the window of his kitchen as he foamed the milk, the hiss of the steam bursting forth. He was tired, as he almost always had been ever since that night when he was almost culled by the Spider, only to almost capture her, then losing her in the smoke and the flames.

His pain was both physical and spiritual at this point. The smoke inhalation he'd suffered vainly trying to find the woman he now knew to be Anna in the burning warehouse had put him in the hospital for a few days, but that pain was only of the flesh, and he knew it would pass.

The anguish he felt at losing his Anna was much greater than any burn.

The milk boiled over and scorched his fingers.

John shook the foamed milk from his hand, and poured it over his coffee. He shuffled over to the kitchen table, slowly, deliberately, trying to make no movement that would hurt.

Well, hurt more. All his movements hurt.

John sat down, and opened up the morning paper. He turned, as he usually did, to Steven Longstreet's column first.

Not surprisingly, it was about the state of crime in the City. According to Longstreet, it had exploded in the last few months, which John knew to be something of an exaggeration. But Longstreet wasn't wrong about recently, open gang warfare had broken out in parts of the City, and the police didn't seem to have any idea of what to do about it.

Longstreet went on to discuss the murdered Koreans, around a dozen of them, gunned down after a "business meeting" by an assailant who sped off in a car. That had been met with any number of other mob type members being found around town, some in dumpsters, some rolled up in carpet, some floating face down in the river.

And some, of course, found ripped apart, eviscerated, and hung up to swing bloodlessly in the air.

John took a deep drink of his coffee, too hot, too fast, and he bent over in pain as it went down his smoke burnt throat.

The doorbell rang.

John hobbled over to the door, and looked out his eyehole. He saw a uniformed police officer standing on his front porch next to another man in a long trenchcoat. John opened the door.

"Good morning, officers," he said, smiling. "What can I do for you today?"

"John Claire?" the uniformed officer asked, and John nodded. "I'm Sergeant James Candy, and this is Detective Roy Stern. We'd like to ask you a few questions."

John nodded, and pulled his bathrobe tighter.

"Of course, gentlemen. Would you like to come in?"

The officers nodded, and the three men went into John's house. John led them to his kitchen, and offered them some coffee.

"I'm just having some myself," John told them. "It's no hassle."

"I could have a cup," Sergeant Candy said. "Black is fine." Detective Stern shook his head no.

John poured the cup and handed it to the Sergeant. John took his seat at the table, and picked up his own cup. He indicated for the police officers to have a seat, Sergeant Candy did. Detective Stern folded his arms and looked over John's shoulder at the newspaper.

"Reading Longstreet, huh?" the Detective asked. "He's been giving us an even harder time in the press than normal. A few extra bodies turn up in the City, and everyone's an expert on stopping crime all of a sudden."

John didn't know what to say. He had another sip of his coffee. The foamed milk had gone flat.

The Detective was a tall man, a good amount over six feet, of a slender and muscular build. His head was shaved completely, he was wearing a black London Fog coat and the mirrored sunglasses that cops tended to wear. His expression was blank, emotionless.

He was, frankly, a very intimidating person, John thought.

"You feeling better, Mr. Claire?" Sergeant Candy asked. "You were just in the hospital, is that right? Smoke inhalation?"

John nodded. "That's right."

"From where your warehouse burnt down? That's when that happened?"

"Yes, that's correct."

"So you were there when it caught fire."

"I was, correct. I was there working."

Sergeant Candy had a sip of his coffee.

"Now, that's good coffee," he said. "The stuff they got us drinking at the police station, well, pardon my language, but it's shit compared to this stuff. What is this, from Europe? Italian, or something?"

"Swiss."

"Whatever it is, it's great," the sergeant went on. He looked over at the detective. "Maybe we should talk to the Chief, see about getting this instead of the Maxwell House."

The detective just grunted. It was hard to tell through his sunglasses, but it seemed like his eyes hadn't left John since they'd entered the kitchen.

"But what I don't understand is," the sergeant went on. "What kind of work were you there doing that late at night? I mean, we've been through what's left of the warehouse. We didn't find any, like, wares in there like you might expect in a warehouse. No equipment. No tools or what have you. For a while we thought maybe you went there to paint or something, but we didn't even find that."

James Candy shook his head, as if puzzled.

"All we did find there were dead people. You know? Some guys burnt up in the fire that we think might be some crime figures, some guys we haven't identified at all yet, and some asshole hanging from a tree outside that we are pretty sure started the fire. Gasoling all over his hands. All the forensic evidence points to that, but what we don't know is how he ended up hanging from a tree with his chest ripped apart, and his guts and blood missing."

"Lewis Gray," John said. "He was doing security for me --"

"We know who he is," the Detective interrupted.

"Yeah, we know who he is," Candy went on. "But why did you hire him? The guy is- was- a piece of shit, nothing but a problem since he started shaving. Burglary, assault, drug dealing, I think I saw sexual assault in his record... of all the people to hire to do security, why him?"

"I try to hire people from the neighborhood," John said. "Try to give people a chance, turn their lives around."

"That ever work?"

John shook his head.

"Not often. Sometimes."

Candy shook his head.

"So, we know who was there when the fire started, and we know that the fire didn't kill everyone- one motherfucker had a bullet in his head. But what we are trying to figure out is, what were you doing there?"

John sat back, and had a sip of his coffee. He didn't like the line of questioning at all, although he was expecting it sooner or later.

He opened himself up, and sent himself out towards the police officers, sent out little feelers to reach into them. He was trying to gauge where he stood with them, what they knew, and how much he would have to... change their perception of the events.

James Candy was about what John had expected. He didn't at all think that there was any good reason for John to have been at that warehouse that night, no reason that didn't point to some kind of crime being committed. He wasn't all that fixed on it, though, didn't seem to think that John was any kind of serious criminal that needed a great deal of attention, from what John could tell. John would be able to work with that.

John began to wrap his will around Sergeant Candy's, loosely, unobtrusively. John could do this sort of influencing almost without thinking about it at all at this point. Pretty soon, John thought, the Sergeant could persuade himself that it was all an accident of some kind that led to John being at the warehouse, all a misunderstanding.

John reached out towards the Detective, stretched his mind out towards the man leaning on his kitchen counter. It was always a little more difficult to reach into two people at the same time, but certainly doable, and if John could bend them both towards thinking that-

John jerked his mind back towards himself, clearing his head with a shake as he did so. He spilled his coffee.

There was nothing there.

Where the Detective was standing, John's mind couldn't find another human there, no presence of any kind, only a... void, a blackness, a hole where a person should have been.

John had never seen such a thing before. Some people he could easily get into, some people were very hard.

But no one, ever, simply hadn't existed.

John sent himself out again, slowly, with great trepidation. He encountered the blackness again, he could see the light of the world shining around the void in his mind, but if the light went into the blackness at all...

It didn't come out.

John looked at the Detective, and back at the Sergeant, grinning foolishly to cover up his fear. He didn't know what was in the room with him this morning, but whatever it was, he knew he didn't want to be around it, ever again.

"John? You OK?" Candy asked. John turned back to face the sergeant with a jerk.

John could feel the Detective's eyes boring into the back of John's head from behind the mirrored sunglasses.

"Yes, Sergeant," John coughed. "Sorry. I get a little light headed since the fire, get headaches from the smoke. My lungs aren't taking in as much oxygen as they should still."

"We were discussing why you were at the warehouse? What it is you do there."

"I go there to work," John said, and stood up from his chair. "I like the solitude. I didn't see anything out of the ordinary, but then again, my memory is very poor still. I was in the hospital for quite a while, I inhaled a lot of smoke."

The police officers just looked at John.

"If you two will excuse me, I have to get ready- I'm giving the bride away today at a wedding."

"Right," Sergeant Candy said. "Your employee- Amanda Sanders. Is that right?"

"Yes, yes," John said. "That's right. How did you- "

"Funny. I mean, her husband just died, Rex, I mean. I knew him a little bit from the force. Did you know him, Detective?"

The Detective just nodded his bald head wordlessly.

"And here she is getting married, after leaving him, her getting a job with you despite not having been in the workforce for over ten years, no experience. Sure was kind of you to find something for her. You sure get around, don't you, John Claire?"

"I'll be happy to answer any questions at your convenience, officers," John replied, in a measured tone that he hoped would disguise his fear. "Just let me know what time myself and my lawyer can come by, and we'll be happy to talk about anything you want to talk about."

"Is that right," Detective Stern said, without a trace of emotion in his voice at all.

******************************

Amanda looked beautiful in her wedding dress, the soft glow of the light pouring through the church's windows made her look positively radiant. She was looking in the mirror in the church's dressing chamber, adjusting the fit of her dress, correcting it, adjusting it again. Behind the door of the dressing chamber, the chapel buzzed with a full house, congregants waiting to see this beautiful woman get married.

John sat behind her on a wooden bench, slumped over. He was looking down at his hands. They were shaking.

They'd been shaking for weeks, he thought. He wondered if they'd ever stop shaking.

He looked up at Amanda. She was happy, happy to be starting her new life with her new husband.

She ran her hands over her long blonde hair, correcting some fault that no one could see. She turned to John.

"Thank you, John," she said. "I'm excited about getting married to Ken. He's a good man- I feel I owe it all to you."

She did. Ken was an attorney that John used from time to time, a good man, John didn't use him for any of the hard hitting stuff. He was an upstanding man, a good business and real estate attorney. John had met with him regarding the warehouse fire, and noticed Ken looking at John's new employee.

"You seeing anyone, Ken?" John had asked.

It had been a bit of a rush-job; John had wanted to take more time selecting Amanda's new husband. But Ken was a good man, and John had sat him down in his office and made absolutely sure that he knew what he was getting with Amanda, that he would love and cherish her, and always treat her well.

"I will, John," Ken had said, and John knew he would.

John looked up at Amanda finally, there was a little regret in his eyes. It wasn't easy to give her away. He'd grown to care for her very much.

But he thought that keeping her any longer might cost her life. He coughed into his hands, painful hacking.

Amanda walked across the room, noticing her boss' distress.

"Oh, John," she said, and took his head in her hands, pulling his face up to look at her. She looked resplendent, majestic. Like an angel that had descended to earth. He tried to smile, weakly.

"Let me stay with you, John," she said. She kissed him lightly on the lips. "Let me take care of you. I can get married and still work for you, still take care of you."

But he was shaking his head.

"It's too dangerous for you," he said. "I can't keep you any longer. I can't keep you safe."

She got down to her knees in front of him, and put her hands around his. Her strength prevented the shaking, for a little while, at least.

"Let me take care of you," she whispered, and pressed his hands together with hers, kissing John's hands, once, twice, a third time.

She laid his hands on the front of his legs, and gently reached out and undid his belt. She lifted him up, just a bit, just enough to slide his tuxedo pants down his legs. She slid his underwear down as well. She ignored his soft protests, waved off his demurral.

"Let me take care of you."

Amanda leaned forward and engulfed John in her mouth, him soft at first, but her bringing him to hardness with only a few pulls of her soft lips. She knelt down further, her wedding dress softly rustling on the wooden floor of the church annex. She put her hands on his, and sucked him gently and quietly.

"Amanda, we're going to be late," he whispered, but she didn't stop sucking him. He pulled one of his hands from hers, and caressed her long hair.

"Oh, beautiful," he was telling her. "I wish it didn't have to be this way."

He began reaching inside her mind, caressing her very self. He loved how open she was with him; she always had been. From the moment he met her, she had opened herself to him at the slightest push, as if she was inviting him in, as if she'd been waiting for him her whole life. He loved being inside of her, her person, her mind. She had always felt like home to him, in all the ways.

She sucked on his cock faster as her pussy began to throb underneath her dress, feeling him push into her mind, opening her up, all the ways, like no one had ever opened her up before.

He began to cum into her mouth, shooting long jets into her lips, her drinking him down for the last time. As always, her pleasure was completely wrapped up in his, and she began to cum herself, her hips pushing up and down, moaning quietly as she orgasmed.

She kept him there, softening in her mouth, for a minute or so, licking at the head of his cock, drinking the drops she pulled from him, one by one. She kept him in her mouth until she had drunk every drop, every last drop she would ever get.

She stood up, and kissed him again.

"Whenever you need me, I'll be there," she told him. "I am always yours, John Claire. I always will be."

She straightened out her dress.

"Now," she said, "Let's go get me married."

*****************************

That night, John drove himself home, alone, the lights of his Lexus piercing the thick fog that had rolled off the river only a few feet. He was tired, and drunk.

Behind him, the reception was still going on, music, and dancing, and fun. He tried to participate, and managed to put up a façade for a little while.

Ultimately, he drove himself home.

He pulled into his circular driveway, and killed the engine. He got out of his car, and shuffled towards the front gate, where he entered the security code. The heavy iron gate cracked open.

John let himself in his front door, and threw his tuxedo jacket on the carpet. He undid his bowtie, and cast that on the floor.

He crossed his living room, pausing to look up. There were still some stray filaments of webbing from when the Spider- Anna- had put his security guards out of commission.

Those men were gone. They hadn't come back. They'd said something about insurance risk, but John wasn't really listening- he didn't blame them.

He made his way to the kitchen, and poured himself four fingers of MacAllan, his hand shaking as he drank half of it down. The scotch burned. He didn't notice.

John stood there, looking outside his window into the fog and blackness, at nothing.

I don't know what is coming after me, he thought. I don't know what to do.

He drained the other half of the scotch, and poured himself another.

Maybe get out of the City, he thought. I don't think I'm going to be able to do what I set out to do here. I think I have to get out.

John finished the last of his scotch. He staggered off to his bedroom, pausing to enter his fingerprint into the security pad. The thick glass door slid open.

He passed out, face down on his mattress, still in his tuxedo.

******************************

John woke up, in pain, face down. His head pounded. His phone was lying next to him, the alarm screeching out.

He picked it up and looked at it. It had been going off for some time. He turned it off.

John rolled over onto his back. He blinked his eyes.

He sat up with a start.

The glass that he slept behind... something was wrong with the glass.

He rushed over to his door, and looked at it, put his fingers on it. There were milk white streaks running down it, cracks radiating in spider-webs from those.

John put his fingerprint to the pad, the door slid open. John let himself out, and closed the door again. He stood there for a minute, running his fingers over the outside of the door and the surrounding glass walls.

There were deep grooves in the glass, which was what had appeared white from the inside. The grooves were deep into the glass, an inch deep in some places. He ran his fingertips over the grooves, little pieces of the safety glass falling away as he did so. His finger caught on some of the jagged glass, cutting him slightly, he didn't notice.

What the fuck, he thought. What the fuck.

It looked like... something had been trying to force its way in, is what it looked like.

He shook his head.

No, he thought. It looked like something had been trying to claw its way in.

He fumbled his phone from the pocket of his tuxedo pants.

What the fuck would be strong enough to do this?

John forced himself to breathe slowly as he dialed the number despite his terror. His lungs were shooting with pain, his heart pounding.

"Hello," she said, picking up the phone.

"I need you," he said. "I need you to meet me. Today. Do you understand me?"

"I understand you," she said.

He told her where to meet him and hung up the phone.

*****************************

John was the first to arrive at the restaurant. The place was popular, and upscale, waiters and waitresses with long white aprons flew about. John was relieved that it was a busy as it was.

Although he knew that whatever was after him wasn't going to come in the light of day.

He also knew that if it did, all the people here would run in terror. As they should. Sometimes, when the predator arrives, the only thing to do is...

Run. And hope the predator isn't there for you.

The waiter brought the water pitcher to John, and inverted the wine glass that was on the table. The waiter lifted the pitcher high, and John watched as the cold, glistening water fell into it, as if in slow motion, pure cold water, clear and beautiful.

12
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