Web of Lies (9 page)
Oh, God, is this girl locked up in a small, dark room? If so, please help us save her.
The door to our lower level opened and closed. Stephen wandered in, sweatpants low on his hips, chest bare. His blond hair, usually gelled and sticking straight up, was matted from sleep. “Hey.” He headed for the refrigerator and opened it. I heard the
thump-slide
of moving containers.
“Good morning. You’re up early. You have to go to work?” I turned the newspaper over and pushed it away.
“Yeah, at ten. Where’s Aunt Jenna?”
“Working at her computer already, I think.”
“Mm.” Stephen withdrew a half gallon of milk and headed to the pantry for cereal. Plunking these on the table, he fetched a bowl and spoon and planted himself in a chair.
I watched him with quiet, weary gratitude. So much about Stephen was different — the confidence in his movements, his mellow nature, the way he talked to me. How naïve I had been in the past few years, not realizing the amount of drugs he was taking. I’d become so used to seeing my son under their influence that I’d forgotten how pleasant he could be.
Oh, God, now just help him turn to You.
“That woman still coming today?” He crunched a large bite of cereal.
“Yes. In a few hours.”
“Man. She’s something else. Wish I could be here.”
I tilted my head. “You remember that much about her?”
“Sure.”
Crunch, crunch.
“She was in all the papers and everything when we were in Redwood City. She’s this psychic. Knows the future and who did stuff. Wouldn’t want her on your bad side.”
“She’s not a psychic.”
He frowned at me, jaws moving. Swallowed. “What would you call her then?”
How to explain this to someone who had little concept of God’s power? “She’s a Christian. And sometimes God chooses to send her a vision about something. Like some of the stories you read in the Bible.”
Stephen sniffed, considering, then shoved in another bite. “I don’t see the difference.” The words garbled around a mouthful of cereal and milk.
“The difference is that God will do what He chooses to do. If He wants someone to know something so certain actions can be taken, He’ll tell that person. But the Bible clearly says that people aren’t supposed to consult psychics for supernatural knowledge.”
Even as I said the words, I realized how illogical they must sound. Four years ago when I first heard of Chelsea Adams, they’d have sounded crazy to
me
. But what amazing things I’d learned since becoming a Christian. The sound of God’s voice. His myriad ways of leading. His power over evil, released through prayer.
Stephen screwed up his face. “Mom, that makes no sense at all.”
I managed a smile. “Maybe not now, Stephen. But someday it will.” I took a drink of coffee, using the time to form my words. “Just remember, there are two forces at work in this world. If something supernatural doesn’t come from God, you’d best stay clear of it.”
“Uh-huh.” Milk dribbled down his chin and he swiped it with the back of his hand. He shot me a faintly amused look, like a father to an imaginative child. “Well, gotta go take a shower. Watch out for those psychics, Mom.” He waggled a finger at me.
As Stephen placed his dishes in the sink, my thoughts drifted back to the newspaper article and Amy Flyte.
Was
she the girl Chelsea saw? I reached out, pulled the newspaper toward me. Turned it over and stared at Amy’s photo. What if she was out there right now, shivering in some dark room, while I sat here in my warm, bright kitchen?
My throat constricted at the mere idea.
I sipped my coffee, but it had gone tepid. From the great room, the grandfather clock chimed nine thirty. An hour and a half before Chelsea came. Why hadn’t I insisted she arrive sooner?
I stared at Amy’s picture until I could look no more.
At a quarter after eleven the doorbell rang.
M
ore bad stuff going down everywhere. Last night the TV, this morning the newspaper. Not cool at all. It made his nerves itch.
He bent over the kitchen table, heart thumping. His thoughts scurried like rats. Killers were always found out. Like they should be. Killing was evil.
What was that Bible verse his grandmother used to recite? Something about everything done in darkness would come to light?
He pulled out a kitchen chair, its legs stuttering over the tile floor. Sank into it and stared at the paper.
A speckle of dirt crawled up his right heel.
“Go away!” He brushed at it with his other foot, but it didn’t help. Little dirt legs, creeping up toward his ankle. He cursed and batted them off.
The voices started in. They’ll find you, they’ll find you . . .
Taunting little ant feet now marched up both legs in rhythm to the words. He scratched and beat them away, then jumped up to run for the shower.
They’ll find you.
Under hot water he scrubbed his feet and hummed. Loudly. By the time he stepped from the shower, he was panting.
This had to stop. Ever since Mike Winger’s death, the voices and ants had been driving him crazy. He had to find a way to make them disappear — for good. One way or another, he had to show them who was boss.
M
y nerves thrummed as I crossed the great room. I heard Jenna’s bedroom door open, knew her curiosity would pull her out to meet Chelsea. At least the girls wouldn’t be underfoot. Kelly was already over at Erin’s house.
With a fixed smile, I pulled open the door. Chelsea stood on my porch, dressed in beige slacks and a tucked-in silk shirt. A purse in one hand and a yellow pad of paper in the other. She looked as striking as I remembered, although her cinnamon hair was cut shorter, not quite to her shoulders. Those amazing eyes rested upon me, their cinnamon color complementing the red-gold tones of her hair. Chelsea’s delicately molded face had been wonderful to draw, her jawline and cheekbones sculpted like a model’s. But I’d only seen her across the courtroom. Now as she greeted me, mere feet away, I could feel a power in her presence, a sense of stability and confidence. Strange, how in that aura I felt both assured and discomfited. This was a woman I couldn’t begin to match, not in appearance, not in faith.
“Chelsea, glad you found us.” I stepped back to usher her inside.
She smiled with genuine warmth and reached out to squeeze my hand. “Annie, it’s so good to
meet you. Thank you for letting me come.” She stepped into our great room and, like all who see it for the first time, tipped her head back to admire its vastness. “Wow, that’s quite a staircase.” She gazed at the custom-built curved stairs. “You have a beautiful place. You are so gracious to open your house to me.”
“Thank you. And you’re welcome.”
We looked at each other. Suddenly I couldn’t quite figure what to say. My sister saved me, appearing from the side hallway. From her easy stride, I knew Jenna would be at no loss for words.
“Chelsea, this is my sister, Jenna.”
Jenna held out her hand. “Hello, and welcome.” She chatted for a few minutes, allowing herself ample time to form a judgment about Chelsea. Finally, and not a moment too soon, she excused herself. “Annie, I’m going to work awhile longer. Then I want to head over to the runway. Time to see how the project is going.” She looked to Chelsea. “We have a private airstrip here for homeowners’ airplanes. It’s being lengthened right now, so the whole thing’s closed down.”
“Oh.” Chelsea looked empathetic. “Bet you want that fixed in a hurry.”
“No kidding she does.” I shook my head at Jenna. “Poor crew members. The project’s just begun, and already she’s starting to bug them about their progress.”
Jenna threw me one of her looks, then retreated to her bedroom.
I offered Chelsea something to eat. She refused, asking only for ice water. I poured her a glass and we headed for my office. Pulling up a seat for her on the other side of my desk, I invited her to sit, then settled into my chair. Earlier that morning I’d set out my drawing materials. Chelsea surveyed them, her expression tightening.
She folded her hands on her lap and took a deep breath. “You know, I think we should pray first.”
“Please, go ahead.”
She nodded, resolve firming her mouth. I closed my eyes.
“Father God, Annie and I sit in awe before You. In Your mercy and in Your will, You have brought us together. We don’t fully know why and we are anxious. But we do know that You will lead us. We seek that leading; we
claim
it. We ask that You open our ears and our spirits to hear You. Lead us, Jesus. Protect us. Give us wisdom.” Her voice rose. “We stand on Your power over evil, and we walk in Your strength .. .”
The words pelted me like hard rain. By the time Chelsea finished, I felt almost tremulous. Did her intensity flow from frightening details of her vision?
“All right.” Tightness squeezed my shoulders. I sought the familiar veneer of a forensic artist conducting an interview.
Just relax, Annie. You’ve done this many times.
“Since you’ve assured me you remember the face very well, let’s put that aside for a minute. First I want you to tell me everything about your vision.”
H
ere goes, God.
Chelsea picked up the yellow pad she’d placed on Annie’s desk. Not that she needed it to remember every detail of what she’d seen. But the paper provided something to focus on, something to hold.
“I’ve got notes here.” She tried to keep her voice factual. Would Annie think she was crazy? Kick her out of the house after hearing what she had to say? “After I saw this, I wrote everything down.” She looked at Annie, then back to her writing. “It started when I was in the kitchen, doing dishes. The boys were in their bedrooms, busy with homework. Paul was . . . I don’t know where.” She drew a breath. “I always know when a vision is coming. The world starts to go black, sort of like when you’re about to faint. Fear usually comes with it, just because I . . . I don’t like the experience. It would be fine with me if I never had another vision in my entire life.” She aimed a rueful smile at Annie. “And I’ve told God so.”
Annie shook her head. “I can imagine. I’d do the same.”
Chelsea nodded, grateful for the understanding. Annie seemed so warm and kind. Even through her reticence.
“Okay.” Chelsea focused on the yellow paper, looking through it. “The first thing I saw was an oval window. Then the picture widened into a shot of a small darkened room. The window was high on the wall, almost near the ceiling. Then I find myself
there
— in the room. Watching through someone else’s eyes — someone who’s there, like I’ve crawled inside this person’s skin.” She paused. “This has happened to me before. Remember the Trent Park case? When I had a vision of that murder, I was
inside
the body of the girl who was killed. I even felt the blows. I felt myself dying.”
Annie drew in her shoulders. Chelsea blinked away the older memory. “So now I’m inside this person, though I have no idea who it is. Don’t even know if it’s a man or woman. But he — she — seems to sense that something shocking and chaotic is going to happen. I realize my feet are bare, and the concrete floor is chilly. I’m struggling to see, because the room is dark. I can barely make out someone else, a figure a few feet away, huddling on the floor. Then on my left, a voice starts talking in a scratchy whisper. A man, but I don’t see him — ”
A sudden shiver gripped her. She squeezed her eyes closed and tumbled into her story. Heard that hate-filled voice, saying
“Little-known fact about spiders. Some can’t even bite humans. Their jaws are too weak. And then there are the deadly ones . . .” A low chuckle. “The trick is telling them apart.”
The figure on the floor shudders.
“Hey, don’t be moving down there.” The whisper again, chilling in its feigned empathy. “They’re all around you.”
Something clicks, and a red light filters through the grayness. Chelsea’s heart pounds, blood coursing through her fear-constricted veins. Her eyes pan across the cowering figure — a female, head bent, hugging both knees. The female’s feet are bare. Chelsea’s gaze rises, to a shelf built into the wall. Her focus sharpens.
The wood is crawling.
On it, under it, upon its sides — spiders. Small ones, others big and bulbous; some with long, long legs. Myriad webs hang underneath the ledge.
Chelsea’s eyes widen in terror. Her gaze flicks away.
Spiders on the wall. Lurking in the corners of the eight-by-ten room. Scuttling across the floor. More boxlike shelves around the room, more and more, creating nooks for weaving, creeping bodies.
“They won’t hurt you if you leave them alone.” The whisper sounds oh, so casual.
Scuffling noises upon the floor. Chelsea’s eyes fix on the man’s shoe. It slides forward, avoiding scurrying bodies.
“Most of ’em aren’t out to get you. In fact, some are pretty shy. But if you scare one, like put your hand down on him, well, what do you expect?”
The female says nothing. She will not look up. Chelsea sucks a ragged breath.
“The harmless ones bite, and you may not even feel it.” The man takes another step. “Others sting like crazy, but their venom isn’t toxic. I have quite a few in here, though — ” he chuckles — “whose bites are something else. After a while your skin swells and feels real tender. The wound fills with pus, and you end up with a gaping hole. You’ll need a doctor. Unfortunately — ” sarcasm drips — “I won’t be bringing you one.”
A rustle of clothes. The man’s hand reaches toward the floor, one finger caressing the narrow back of a large brown creature.
“This is a hobo spider. Lots
of people mistake them for the brown recluse.”
Chelsea’s skin begins to crinkle and crawl.
“Only problem — ” the man’s foot shifts direction — “the poor hobos get trapped in other spiders’ webs and are gobbled up, ’cause their own webs aren’t sticky. They can’t walk on that stuff. So I have to keep replacing them.”
He pulls a small jar from his pocket. Inside is a black spider the size of a half dollar. It fills the width of the jar. “Now
this
one — see that pile of sand in the corner? It belongs to him. Cool-looking dude, huh? Like I said, one of the world’s deadliest. The funnel web, from Australia.
Atrax Robustus
, if you want to get technical. When he bites, he rears way up on his hind legs ’cause his fangs only strike down. Things are seven millimeters long. Look at the venom oozing off of ’em.”