A Web of Black Widows Read online

  A Web of Black Widows

  Scott William Carter

  Smashwords Edition

  Copyright 2010 by Scott William Carter

  A WEB OF BLACK WIDOWS

  and Other Stories of Love and Loss

  Scott William Carter

  Flying

  Raven

  Press

  Copyright Information

  Flying

  Raven

  Press

  Electronic edition published by Flying Raven Press, July 2010. Copyright © 2010 by Scott William Carter. All rights reserved, including the right of reproduction, in whole or in part in any form. This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents either are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.

  Any resemblance to actual events or locales or persons, living or dead,

  is entirely coincidental.

  This collection was originally published in print by PS PUBLISHING in February 2010. If you wish to own a print copy, please contact this publisher at http://store.pspublishing.co.uk/. A limited autographed edition is also available.

  "Introduction" © 2009 by Scott William Carter. "A Web of Black Widows" © 2008 by Scott William Carter. "The Woman Coughed Up by the Sea" © 2004 by Scott William Carter. First appeared online in Chizine, July 2004. "Black Lace and Salt Water" © 2008 by Scott William Carter. "She's Not All There" © 2008 by Scott William Carter. "Front Row Seats" © 2004 by Scott William Carter. First appeared online in Chizine, April 2004. "Static in a Still House" © 2008 by Scott William Carter.

  Contents

  Introduction

  A Web of Black Widows

  The Woman Coughed Up By The Sea

  Black Lace and Salt Water

  She's Not All There

  Front Row Seats

  Static in a Still House

  Author's Introduction

  I'D LIKE TO SAY that I sat down one day and decided to write a collection of stories all based around a common theme. I'd like to say that because it makes it seem like I have a certain amount of control over what I choose to write about, that I'm one of those writers who could decide he wanted to write about the horrors of war or third world poverty or the disillusionment of your typical soccer mom, or something else that seems important, that makes me seem like a Real Author and not just somebody who scribbles some words once in a while. That sure would be neat, wouldn't it? I could say I decided I wanted to write about love and loss and here's six tales that came from that decision.

  The problem is, it's not true.

  No, I'm afraid the thematic similarity of these stories happened by accident. Or, if not by accident, at least subconsciously, because obviously there's some part of me that's drawn to write about these subjects.

  I wish I could say why. Usually I start with an interesting title or an image of some kind and then see where it takes me. Sometimes it goes no where and the effort is abandoned. Other times I keep rubbing the pieces of a mental flint together until a fire sparks — meaning I feel something, that there's something in the story that has resonance — and then the story takes shape. In any case, there's never a plan behind it. And honestly, I'm probably the last person who could tell you what any of them mean.

  I've only been publishing for a few years, but I've quickly discovered that I'm not one of those writers who writes the same type of story over and over again. Science fiction, fantasy, mystery, young adult, horror — my fiction spans time and space, genre and focus. Some stories are light and fun, others dark and brooding. I haven't yet figured out if this tendency is a good thing or not, but I seem to be stuck with it.

  However, these stories are similar, either by chance or by subconscious design, take your pick, all of them set in modern day America with just a touch of the fantastic. I must warn you that your journey here will most likely not be a happy one. When you write about love and loss, the journey is not usually happy. That's not to say reading them won't be worthwhile. I hope you will be intrigued, engaged, moved, and troubled by the stories that follow. When love and loss intersect, these are the things that should happen, in my opinion. Otherwise, I've wasted your time, and as a writer, wasting your time is what I fear most. It's the cardinal sin of the storyteller.

  Oh, and as dark as any of these stories get, there's hope in there, too. There has to be. Otherwise, why write at all?

  —Scott William Carter, December 2009

  A Web of Black Widows

  IN THE BLISTERING RAIN, it was impossible to see where the sky ended and the ocean began. Marty drove north along Highway 101 to the outskirts of Edson, sudden gusts of wind pushing against the patrol car. The tops of the pine trees that lined the road swayed and bowed. The windshield wipers squeaked across the glass at full speed, and still he had trouble seeing the narrow two-lane road ahead.

  He drove with both hands on the steering wheel. Even after ten years as sheriff, big storms still made him nervous. Bad stuff always seemed to happen, especially in the spring, when people started coming out of their hidey-holes. The only good thing about Edson was that if you gave it twenty minutes, the weather would usually change.

  Father Jantz was waiting under his covered porch when Marty pulled into the gravel driveway. Jantz wore a yellow rain slicker, the hood up, the white collar just visible. Keeping his head low, the priest hobbled down the two steps, using a black cane to support himself.

  When the passenger door opened, the damp salty wind rushed inside, the chill cutting right through Marty's uniform. The priest settled gingerly into the seat and closed the door. Marty had taken plenty of ride-alongs with him over the years, but this was the first time he had a priest.

  "Father," Marty said, nodding.

  The hood came down and Marty was shocked at the scarred, pock-marked face underneath. The old man had the kind of earth-worn complexion that Marty saw on sailors, not priests.

  "Son," Father Jantz said.

  In person, his voice sounded even deeper and more gravely than over the phone. He smiled with crooked yellow teeth.

  Marty smiled back. "Anything in particular you want to know about, Father? I know you're new in town."

  "No, no. Just do your normal routine."

  Marty took the car back to the highway. He headed for Noker Beach to see if there was anyone camping out in the Day Use Area. There were a lot kids from the University of Oregon who thought they could get away with it.

  "Truth is," he said, "I don't have

  much of a normal routine. No need for one in a town as little as Edson."

  Father Jantz chuckled. "We all have routines, son. Some we make for ourselves, and some others make for us."

  "Suppose that's true," Marty said. And then, to change the subject: "So what brings you out here? Come for the weather?"

  Marty expected a laugh. It was a joke you could use once on a newcomer.

  But Father Jantz just looked out at the ocean, a far-off look in his eyes.

  "Came to save souls," he said.

  "I thought I heard you retired."

  "You understand, son, that this is my calling, not my vocation."

  They came around the bend, the surf pounding on the rocks below. A white Porsche zipped by, not slowing until it was too late. Marty checked the radar, then decided it wasn't worth pursuing.

  "You going to start a new parish?" Marty asked.

  "Not hardly. Just looking for a lost soul."

  "I'm sure we've got at least a few."

  "Oh, I'm looking for a special one. Someone I can tell is lost just by looking them in the eyes. They have this look, you know, to someone who's trained."

  Marty smiled. "Did you see a lost man when you looked in my eyes? I have to tell you, I
haven't gone to church in a long time. Religion just isn't my cup of tea."

  "An honest man," Father Jantz said, smiling faintly. "Shows you aren't lost at all. And I didn't say anything about religion. After all my years on this Earth, most of the time spent doing just about everything to stop myself from finding out who I was, I can tell you that a man can only find God for himself, and no priest will ever change that. Not exactly a popular view in the church, but that's the way I see it."

  Marty was surprised. "You have interesting views."

  "I didn't find my faith until after my wife died when I was forty. It gives me a perspective that some of my fellow priests don't have."

  It seemed too personal to ask Father Jantz about his wife, so Marty said nothing. They passed the Inn at Big Rock, which meant they were coming up on Noker State Park.

  "Well," Marty said, "I'll let you worry about the lost souls. My job is to bring in the ones that are going to stay lost. The creeps and losers that would rather cut your throat than shake your hand."

  "Hope is never lost, my son. Only misplaced."

  Marty grimaced. That was the kind of attitude people had when they had never read someone their Miranda rights for the third time in two years. He wasn't going to argue, though. If it got back to his mother, as devout a Catholic as they came, she would have killed him.

  He turned onto one-lane road that led into the tall pines and the yellow scotchbroom. If he was lucky, they would just find an empty parking lot. When he reached the end of the road, though, there were two cars parked in the Day Use area, near the wooden footbridge that led over the creak to the beach path.

  One of them — a Volkswagen van covered with brightly painted designs — instantly made him suspicious. The back windows were tinted black. There was also a red F-150 with a missing tailgate, but he could see that the cab was empty right off. Somebody on a morning beach walk, probably.

  That's what he thought until they got closer and he saw the plates. The Volkswagen had Illinois tags, the truck, Iowa. They had come a long ways.

  "A tattoo artist," Father Jantz said.

  "What makes you say that?" Marty asked.

  "I've seen this truck before. At a Grateful Dead concert a number of years ago."

  The image of Father Jantz among the sweaty, swaying bodies of the Dead Heads made Marty smile. He parked next to the van, glancing at the side. Sure enough, Father Jantz was right. Langdon Tattoos and Piercings.

  He was admiring the detailed paintings of cobras, tigers, and voluptuous women when Father Jantz leaned forward suddenly.

  "Sheriff . . . " he said, a warning in his voice.

  Marty turned and saw that the priest was looking out beyond the sandy rise at the ocean a hundred yards away. He followed the old man's gaze and saw it right away: through the bluster of the wind and the rain, against the backdrop of the cresting white waves, there was a man standing at the edge of the surf. Marty couldn't make out much, but he could see what was held loosely at the man's side.

  A shotgun.

  It couldn't be anything else.

  "Jesus Christ Almighty," he said.

  He threw open the door and stepped out into a gust of wet wind. He ripped out his Beretta and charged up the dune. When he reached the top, the wind was even stronger, and he had to lean into it. His clothes were quickly drenched, chilling him to the bone.

  He raised a hand to squint out at the figure.

  The man was turned toward the ocean. It was definitely a shotgun. And, then, when the waves rolled back, Marty saw the unmistakable shape of two bodies out in the shallows of the surf, the sea foam tinged red.

  Steven Langdon left Chicago at dawn and made good time on I-80, passing through both Illinois and Iowa in a single day. He crossed the Nebraska state line at dusk, when the skies shifted from blue to ash gray. The rumble in his stomach reminded him he had not eaten since breakfast, and he pulled into a little town with flat, gray farmland on all sides.

  He fueled up his Volkswagen at the gas station, then pulled into the gravel parking lot of the little diner next door. The setting sun was bright on the restaurant windows, and all the blinds were drawn. But when he stepped out of the car into the dry air, he saw cracks in the blinds. People always watched him. He knew they'd probably never seen a six foot six bald man with tattoos all over his neck. Or a tattoo artist's van painted headlight to bumper with brightly colored designs. Probably didn't happen much in podunk, Nebraska.

  He never cared about them watching when Julie was around.

  Inside, only two or three tables were occupied, mostly with old folks. They glared at him suspiciously. An Elvis song he didn't recognize played from a small radio on top of the microwave behind the counter. The waitress standing there, a redhead with a pinched face, stared at him.

  "Yes?" she said.

  He swallowed. He had always been a man who had trouble speaking, but it was even worse these days. Words were like motes of dust in the air to him; when he reached for them, they weren't there.

  "Table," he said.

  "Make yourself at home," she said, the tone in her voice telling him the exact opposite.

  "Menu?"

  "I'll bring it to you."

  He walked past the other customers. He slid into a red booth, sitting close to the window to avoid the jagged tear in the vinyl. The waitress disappeared into the back for a few minutes but finally returned with the menu, silverware, and a glass of water.

  "Special today is ham and cheese omelet with a side of toast. Coffee?"

  He shook his head and she left.

  He looked down at the menu. He was hoping there were pictures, but it was just words. He hadn't been able to read anything since Julie died. The words all blurred together, ink spots on the page. If he looked at printed words long enough, he could see shapes in them, but they didn't mean anything.

  A car with a ticking engine pulled into the gravel parking lot. The blinds on his window were down and closed tightly, but he saw through the gaps where the strings were threaded. It looked like someone was standing in front of his van. He spread the blinds with his fingers, squinting into the glare.

  Sure enough, there was a woman out there. Strangely, she was dressed in a blue bathrobe and pink slippers. She had her back to him, and she was looking at his designs. Her hair was brown, although not as dark as Julie's, and she was a little more voluptuous than Julie ever was.

  The woman turned, and then Steven was in for his second surprise. The woman had a pregnant belly.

  She stared at the diner for a moment, then approached.

  Her husband was already out in the fields when Nancy Carroll woke to the crow of the rooster. She remained still. If she didn't move during these first few minutes of the day, when the dusky light of dawn filled her bedroom, the spiders in her mind were at peace. She liked this light. It made the bare, white walls a nice shade of lavender. She reached underneath her silk gown and touched her swollen belly. She felt the little swell of hard flesh on the right side, and knew it was the baby's head. A girl. The technician who did the ultrasound told them it was a girl. Ninety-five percent chance, he said.

  Anna. Caitlin. Britney.

  Not Britney. That reminded Nancy of Britney Spears.

  Wake up, little spider.

  She felt them coming awake now and crawling through her brain. Sometimes she got as long as an hour before they came, and sometimes only five minutes.

  She closed her eyes and listened to the sounds. Creaking floorboards. A horse's neigh out in the barn. The tapping of that old pipe Ed said he was going to fix. That tapping had been there for years, even when Ed's father still owned the place. It had bothered Nancy even then. Tap, tap, tap. If she listened close, she could also hear Ed's parents. They had been dead for years, but she could still hear them talking sometimes. They were under the hardwood floors. Voices low. Whispering.

  "You should be glad to marry someone like, Ed, dear."

  "That's right, Ed's a fine boy."

&n
bsp; A fine boy. Nancy mouthed the words. She had two boys. They were a lot like Ed. Ruddy complexion. Round-faced. Lots of anger. Now she had a girl coming along.

  Mary. Helen. Pamela.

  No, not Pamela. There was Pamela Anderson.

  She felt them crawling around in her ears now. Lots of little spiders, dancing on her eardrums with their little feet.

  The baby moved.

  She pressed in on her flesh, feeling another kick. Her head had started to hurt, so she knew the spiders were everywhere. Nancy slid her throbbing feet onto the floor. The cold wood made her toes curl. She put on her terrycloth bathrobe and her slippers and headed out into the dark hall. She paused by the boys' room and listened to them breathing. Long, slow, easy breaths.

  Time to make breakfast, little spider.

  Easing herself down the carpeted stairs, Nancy felt a sharp pain in the arch of her back. It had gotten worse over the last month. Must have been the spider's doing.

  A fire blazed in the hearth; first thing Ed did everyday was get a fire going, summer or winter. She flicked on the kitchen light and padded across the vinyl floor, feeling the gritty layer of dust on the floor. She pulled out the griddle and started on some eggs. Ed always wanted his eggs. She glanced out the window over the sink and saw him, a short, broad-shouldered man in overalls, a blue cap, and a red plaid shirt, out in the hog pen.

  Nancy hummed as she worked. She liked to hum little poems that she made up.

  Little spider, dance with me.

  Little spider, follow me.

  Little spider, are you me?

  Soon the kitchen was filled with the smells of pancakes and ham on the griddle. She placed the scrambled eggs in a glass bowl on the table, then turned and hollered to Nelson and Steven that breakfast was ready. They wouldn't come unless she hollered real loud. They would eat quickly, as always, then leave for school. Ed would be out in the fields and she would be alone.