take away his hard work, his triumphs, his mementos. His boys. He knew his mother would be proud of what he’d done, but the proof that he’d appeased her was gone.
They’d taken it all away. After five years all that was left were some remnants of cargo netting rotting in the tree limbs, the remains of a few sawed-off ropes.
But he could close his eyes and remember, and remembering filled him with joy and a sense of his own huge power, the power to purify them forever. Calvin had saved them.
Unlike his boys, he was filled with great purpose, a purpose handed down to him by his mother.
From earliest childhood he had been fascinated by spiders and their webs. He had spent hours watching as insect after insect fell victim to those silken strands, struggling mightily until they were stung and then wrapped up helplessly to await their fate. Each corpse on the web had been a trophy, marking the spider’s victory. No one ever escaped.
No one had escaped him, either.
But his boys were gone, carried away to a different fate on cold slabs and cold holes in the ground. Honored no more, at least not by him.
He stood for a while, remembering, then turned to begin the trek back to the ranch. A small ranch, left to him after his mother’s death long ago, but it was isolated enough to pursue his calling, and without his mother around it would be even more private. He considered it a bonus that construction at the new ski resort had begun. An influx of people for the jobs made his return even less remarkable.
These past years, moving from city to city before he could be found, he’d had to give up a lot of his boys, which had left him feeling incomplete and unsatisfied. Certainly there’d been no spiderwebs. Well, he could rebuild his triumphs here. Not in the woods, perhaps, since they’d found his first group, but maybe in the barn loft, out of sight? He needed to think about it.
He really wanted his web again, his carefully preserved trophies. He wanted what every spider wanted, and he’d find a way. The need was growing stronger. He needed to act again, and he needed to honor those who sustained his soul. He also needed to carry out his mission of purification. Sometimes, though, he lost track of what mattered more: his mission or his need. In those moments, he felt a little confused, but eventually he righted himself.
A cautious part of his mind warned him to wait a little longer, to make sure his plan would work. Soon that voice would give way to the compulsion that filled him, making the whole world seem luminescent, especially the chosen one.
But for now he suppressed the need. He wasn’t stupid. In fact, he was quite smart, as proved by the fact that no one had come for him yet. He knew he was committing crimes. He just didn’t care. His mission was bigger and more important than mere mortal laws.
He was himself chosen, just like a spider, to be exactly what he was.
Chosen. He liked that word. It fit both him and his boys. They were all chosen to perform the dance of death together, to reach the ultimate purity. To sacrifice the ordinary for the extraordinary.
So he quashed his growing need to act and focused his attention on another part of his life. He had a job now, on the crisis hotline. Calvin had worked at them before, which had gotten him a job almost the instant he walked in the door. Five evenings a week for four hours he answered telephones and talked with distressed people: victims of rape, of domestic abuse, and the ones who interested him the most, the desperate boys.
He was whistling now as he walked back down the mountain to his truck. A spiderweb was beginning to take shape in his mind, one for his barn loft that no one would see, ever. It was enough that he could admire it and savor the gifts there. That he could bask in the purity of his successful missions.
The impulse to hunt eased, and soon he was in control again. He liked control. He liked controlling himself and others, even as he fulfilled his purpose. Self-control was everything, as his mother had often reminded him.
Like the spider, he was not hasty to act. It would have to be the right person at the right time, and the time was not yet right. The right times were coming to him more often now as he grew in strength.
But first he had to build his web.
In January beneath a leaden sky, special agents Cade Bankston and DeeJay Dawkins rocketed down an empty state highway toward the town of Conard City, Wyoming. They had been summoned to find a serial killer.
Cade had been to Conard City a few times years ago, very briefly, and had found it unremarkable but pleasant. DeeJay had never seen it. Given her background, he wondered how she would react. But then he couldn’t figure out what the hell a woman with her past was doing working as a criminal investigator for the state of Wyoming. As a former military cop for an elite MP unit, she should have had her pick of jobs.
Maybe it was that prickly nature of hers that caused her problems. Certainly they’d had a few near-fights over the past three days, and they’d only just been made partners. If there was something, imagined or real, for DeeJay to object to, then she seemed to find it.
The red car they were driving was kind of sporty for the country, but that was the idea. To look like outsiders rather than insiders. To act as cover for a couple of investigators pretending to be married travel writers.
That “married” was still the biggest bone of contention between them. Not that it had been their decision. Nope. None of this had been their decision, and if they could just wrap their heads around that part, maybe the spats would ease up.
He kept his attention on the road. Snow blanketed the open spaces around them, although it was still a thin blanket. Plenty of brush stuck up through it, and tumbleweeds tossed like agitated prisoners against the barbed wire that had snared them. If there was life out here that was mobile, it had found somewhere to hide. Even the ranch houses were invisible from the road, although occasionally a sign pointed the way or smoke from a woodstove signaled in the distance.
He glanced at his companion. Well, okay, partner. He’d never wanted another female partner again, but that was a subject he wasn’t about to explore again, now or later. He just didn’t like it and didn’t want it, had learned it contained huge pitfalls. Now here he was with a woman stapled to his side for the duration.
She’d have been pretty enough if he hadn’t already discovered she was a prickly pear cactus with enough sharp spines to leave a man in ribbons. Inky black hair, high, wide cheekbones that bespoke some Native American ancestry, a straight nose that was just right for her face and a mouth that, damn it, looked like it was begging for a kiss. Even when it was compressed in disapproval, which it often was as far as he could tell. And that inventory didn’t even get to her figure, a great figure for someone who was in the peak of physical conditioning, which she clearly was. He liked women who were fit.
He clapped his eyes back on the empty road and schooled his thoughts to a safer area. The woman in the passenger seat was off-limits, no caveats, no exceptions. And she was probably still stewing because he was driving.
That had been their first disagreement of the day. Just the opening salvo. The next battle had ensued over the choice of radio station. He liked country music while he was driving. Turned out she liked NPR. Now why would that surprise him? Thing was, when he was driving he preferred to escape into fantasies about losing the woman, the truck and the dog rather than listen to real-world discussions that usually riled him up because he mostly didn’t like the way the world was going
